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THERESE RAQUIN. 


-A. NOVEL. 


BY EMILE ZOLA. 


AUTHOR OF “NANA," “ l'ASSOMMOIR,” “ THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS," “ h£l£nB/* 
“ALBINE," “CLORINDA," “MARKETS OF PARIS," “MAGDALEN FBRAT," 

“THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY; OR, MIETTE," ETC. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 

BY JOHN STIRLING. 


“ Th£:r£se Raquin" is a powerful story of the realistic school. It is the story of 
a murder skilfully planned and skilfully executed. Bid this is by no means all. 
The description of the remorse that swiftly followed on the dastardly crime — remorse 
that transformed the guilty love of the murderers into hate and loathing — is given 
with such power that one shivers at the picture. The haunting presence of the mur- 
dered husband, by night and by day, and the climax, the natural outgrowth of the 
crime, could only have been drawn by the master pen of Zola, whose talent — / may 
almost say genius — cannot be questioned ; for he analyzes most profoundly , some of 
his descriptions of French life being equal to anything ever written by Dickens, while 
there is not one of his books, not even the crudest, to use the words of Edmondo De 
Amicis, “that does not leave in the soul, pure, firm, and immutable , aversion or scorn 
for the base passions of which he treats, zvhile his nude figures do not inspire the slight- 
est immoral thought, for reading his works is like finding Truth for the first time.” 



% 


f 



/ 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS 
806 CHESTNUT STREET. 


* 


COPYRIGHT. 

TT. S. PETEBSOIT &o BROTHERS. 

1881. 




i^IILE ZOLA’S GREAT WORKS. 

Nana. The Sequel to “ I/Assoinmoir.” By £mile Zola, author of 
“ L’Assommoir,” “ Helene,” etc. With a portrait of “ Nana” on the cover. 

“Nana” is a variety actress, whose charming face and magnificent figure create a 
furore amongst the fashion of Paris, and the work is a recital of her daily life, on and off 
the boards— a life of perpetual excitement, and of uninterrupted pleasure. Both behind 
the scenes and at her rooms she is constantly surrounded by a crowd of attendants. 
“Nana” has created a great sensation abroad, and has been bailed by the Press, both 
of London and Pari*, as the literary event of years, over four hundred thousand copies 
of “Nana” and “ L'Assommoir” having been already sold in France. 

I/Assommoir. B<t Itmile Zola, author of “Nana,” “Albine,” “Clorinda,” 
“ Helene,” etc. With a portrait of “ Gervaise,” the mother of “ Nana,” on the cover. 
“ L’Assommoir” is one of the greatest and most extraordinary works ever written, 
full of nature and of art, dramatic, narrative, and pictorial. It is without a rival. 

Clorimla; or. The Court of Napoleon III. By £mile Zola, author 
of “ Nana,” “ Helene,” etc. With a portrait of “ Clorinda ” on the cover. 

Each character in “Clorinda” bears a name ; and as a picture of the manner in which a 
scorned and slighted woman avenges herself, “ Clorinda ” is absolutely without a parallel. 

H£l&ne, a Love Episode; or, Fne Page D’Amonr. By £.mil<> Zola, 
author of “ Nana,” and “ Clorinda.” With a portrait of “ Helene ” on the cover. 

“II uli'nk,” by author of “ Nana,” is full of powerful and life-like delineations of char- 
acter. Besides the love story running through the volume, there are many pages 
devoted to rapturous descriptions of Paris at sunrise, at noonday, at sunset, and at night. 

The Markets of Paris; or, I.e Ventre I>e Paris. 

“The Markets of Paris,” by author of “Nana,” is a remarkable work. In it Zola 
introduces us to the Parisian cook shop — and in la belle Lisa we find the sister of Ger- 
vaise, the woman who stirred the depths of our hearts with pity, in “L’Assommoir.” 

Magdalen F£rat. By fimile Zola, author of “ Nana.” “Albine,” “Clorinda,” 
“ Helene,” “ L’Assommoir,” etc. With a portrait of “ Magdalen Ferat,” on the cover. 
“Magdalen FILrat” is a love story of pronounced strength and absoibing interest. It 
has a well-constructed plot, which is developed in masterly fashion. There is not a 
page of the story that will not be read through and appreciated. 

Miette; or. The Rousron-Macquart Family. (La Fortune ties 
Rotigon.) By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” With a portrait of •* Miette.” 

In “ Miette; or, The Rougon-Macquart Family,” by author of “ Nana,” Zola depicts 
people as he sees them; he sets down their passions and their weaknesses, their petty 
jealousies, and small rivalries, while his heart is as tender as his pen is forcible. 

Albine; or. The Abba’s Temptation. (La Fante <le T/Abb6 Mou- 
re t.) By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” With a portrait of “Albine” on cover. 
“Albine” is a character study of a high order, and is one of the most pathetic, charm- 
ing, and sweetest love stories ever printed. It is so perfect that it seems painted rather 
than written. It is so real, that one can almost smell the flowers described and inhale 
the perfumed air. It is so pathetic that it brings tears to the eyes. 

The Conquest of Plassans ; or. La Conqnlte I>e Plassans. 

In “The Conquest of Plassans,” by author of “Nana,” Zola’s command of language 
is absolutely marvellous, and he uses it so accurately that the reader has before Lira 
the individual, the act or the scene, the hour of the day or night he describes. 



< ; 


7 


4 


CONTENTS. 



Chapter page 

I. LE PASSAGE DU PONT-NEUF 21 

II. THE HERO AND HEROINE MARRY 27 

III. REMOVAL TO PARIS 35 

IV. MADAME RAQUIN’S RECEPTIONS 43 

V. A NEW ARRIVAL 48 

VI. PORTRAIT PAINTING 56 

VII. FRANCOIS, THE CAT 60 

VIII. A SILENT KISS.. . . J 66 

IX. EVIL COUNSEL 71 

X. UNSUSPECTED ASSASSINS 79 

XI. A DAY OF HORROR 83 

XII. A MOTHER’S GRIEF 97 

XIII. THE MORGUE 105 

XIV. AUNT AND NIECE 110 

XV. CONDOLENCES 114 

XVI. INDECISION 116 

XVII. IN THE SILENT WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 124 

XVIII. CAMILLE’S GHOST 131 

XIX. A CLEVER ACTRESS 137 

(19) 


✓ 

20 CONTENTS. 

Chapter Page 

XX. THE MARRIAGE DAY 150 

XXI. HORROR AND DISGUST 156 

XXII. A GHOSTLY VISION 168 

XXIII. INSANITY 174 

XXIV. SELFISHNESS REWARDED 176 

XXV. IN THE STUDIO 187 

XXVI. TENDER DEVOTION 198 

XXVII. THE AVENGING HAND 207 

XXVIII. RECRIMINATION 218 

XXIX. THERESE KISSES HER AUNT 222 

XXX. TO BE, OR NOT TO BE 282 

XXXI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 248 

XXXII. THE END 251 


THERESE RAQUIN. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF 

i 

3E33^EX2L.E3 

AUTHOR OF 16 NANA,” “ L* ASSOMMOIR,” “CLORINDAJ OR, THE RISE AND REIGN OF 
HIS EXCELLENCY EUGENE ROUGON,” 44 MIETTE I OR, THE ROUGON-MACQUART 
FAMILY; OR, LA FORTUNE DES ROUGON,” 44 HELENE ; OR, UNE PAGE D , AMOUR | ,> 

4 < albine; or, the abbe’s temptation; or, la faute de l’abbe 

MOURET,” 44 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS ; OR, LA CONQUBTB 
DE PLASSANS,” 44 THE MARKETS OF PARIS ; OR, LK 
VENTRE DE PARIS,” 44 MAGDALEN FERAT,” ETC. 

TRANSLATED BY JOHN STIRLING. 

■ - 4-m* *- * 


CHAPTER I. 

LE PASSAGE DU PON T-N E TJ F. 

A T the end of la Rue Guene-Gaud as you come 
from the Quais, you find yourself in the Passage 
du Pont-Neuf , a sort of lane — dark and dreary, run- 
ning from la Rue Mazarin to la Rue de Seine . This 
passage is twenty feet long and two wide at the utmost. 
It is paved with yellowish stones, worn and uneven, 
ill-smelling and damp. 

On fair summer days, when a hot sun pours down 
on the streets, merely a whitish light enters through 

( 21 ) 


22 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


the dirty window panes looking out on this passage. 
On stormy days in winter, or foggy mornings, the 
wretched interiors receive no light whatever from 
without. 

On the left the shops are especially low and dark, 
and are occupied by manufacturers of children’s toys, 
and by box makers whose stocks in trade are covered 
thick with dust, and whose small-paned windows throw 
a grim reflection on the faces of all within, who move 
about in the obscurity almost like shadows. On the 
right runs a long wall, against which the people. in the 
shops opposite have built narrow closets, in which are 
displayed all sorts of articles, on hideous brown shelves. 
An old woman has hired one of these closets, and 
there sells imitation jewelry — rings for fifteen sous, 
are delicately arranged on a bed of blue velvet, in the 
bottom of a mahogony box. 

Above these closets extends the wall, covered with 
green stains and mould. 

The Passage du Pont-Neuf is not a place in which 
the gay world walks. It is taken only as a short cut — 
when one is in a hurry — and is used by persons whose 
great aim in life is to save a few minutes — apprentices 
in white aprons, work-women carrying huge bundles, 
men and women with boxes and packages under their 
arms. An occasional aged man may be seen dragging 
himself along, and the children coming from school 
delight to scamper through, as they greatly enjoy the 
noise of their wooden shoes clattering on the stones, 
and re-echoing from the walls. 


THIS RE SE RAQUIN. 23 

All day long, therefore, there is a constant sound of 
footsteps — no one speaks, no one stops — but each per- 
son hurries on, without glancing into the shops, the 
proprietors of which look out anxiously, hoping that 
some one may be attracted by their wares. 

In the evening three gas jets, enclosed in cumbrous 
lanterns, lighted the passage. These gas lights shed 
around them pale circles, which trembled and seemed 
every moment about to disappear. The Passage then 
assumed a singularly cut-throat aspect — great shadows 
stretched along the paving stones, and blasts of cold, 
damp air poured in from the street. It was like a sub- 
terranean gallery vaguely lighted by three funeral 
lamps. The shop-keepers were quite contented with 
the scanty illumination afforded their windows by these 
gas lights, and had only within the shops a lamp with 
a shade upon it standing on the corner of their coun- 
ters. The passers-by could then distinguish something 
of the interior of these dingy holes where darkness 
lurked all through the day. 

Just under one of the gas lights was the box manu- 
facturer, and on the opposite side further on, one 
candle caused the imitation jewelry to glitter — its pro- 
prietor lying coiled up on the floor of the closet, asleep, 
with her arms folded in her shawl. 

Some years ago there was in this lane a shop painted 
dark green, damp and unwholesome. A long narrow 
plank was the sign, and had on it the words, Thread 
and Needles , and on the glass door was a woman’s 
name — “ Thdr£se Raquin,” painted in red letters. 


24 


THERESE R A Q U I X . 


On the right and left of the door were deep windows, 
the sloping floors of which were covered with blue 
paper. 

During the morning all that could be seen was the 
scanty supply of merchandise displayed in these win- 
dows and on that end of the counters nearest them. 

On one side there was a little lingerie — fluted caps at 
two and three francs each, muslin collars and sleeves, 
a few pairs of knitted stockings and a pair of suspen- 
ders. Alniost everything was yellow and dusty, and 
was suspended by a hook of steel wire. The windows 
therefore were obscured by thin white chiffons which 
presented a very miserable appearance. The new caps 
of a more dazzling whiteness caught the eye at once, 
and also an occasional pair of long stockings. 

On the other side, in a narrow window, were balls 
of yarn of different colors, black buttons sewed on 
white cards, boxes of all colors and all dimensions, 
bunches of steel beads, bundles of knitting needles, 
patterns for worsted work, rolls of ribbons — all these 
things looked as if they had lain there perfectly undis- 
turbed for five or six years. All seemed of one uniform, 
dull gray in this store-house, to which wind, dust, and 
rain had access. 

Toward noon on clear summer days, when the sun 
poured down its ardent, yellow rays on the wide 
streets, behind the caps in the larger window a young 
woman’s pale, grave face could be distinguished. This 
profile stood out against the darkness of the rear of 


THEKE SE Ii A Q U I N . 


25 


the shop. A low, broad brow, a straight, slender nose, 
thin red lips, and a short well-cut chin fading into the 
throat in rounded lines, were all that could be seen, for 
the figure was lost in the shadow — the profile alone 
appeared — of almost waxen pallor, long-fringed lashes 
to eyes wide open, and a head crowned by masses of 
dark hair. This head could be seen motionless for 
hours between two caps on which the steel wires had 
left streaks of rust. 

In the evening when the lamp was lighted, the inte- 
rior of the shop was visible. It was not deep — the 
counter was on the side of the largest window — while 
on the other at the end, there was a staircase leading 
to the rooms above. Against the walls were shelves 
with glass doors, and shelves piled with green boxes — 
four chairs and a table completed the furniture. The 
place was inexpressibly dreary and bare, the merchan- 
dise all looked as if it were packed for removal. 

As a general thing there were two women seated 
behind the counter : the young woman with the grave 
face, and an old lady who smiled and nodded in her 
sleep. This old lady was about sixty. Her placid fat 
face looked white in the lamp light — a great tortoise 
shell cat crouched on the corner of the counter and 
watched her. 

Seated on a low chair, was a man of some thirty 
years, reading or talking with the younger woman in a 
low voice. He was small, thin, with hair of a faded 
blonde, a scanty beard and a face covered with freckles. 
He looked like a spoiled, unhealthy child. 


26 


THER^SE RAQUIN. 


A little before ten the elder woman awoke. The 
shop was closed and the family went up stairs to bed. 
The cat followed its mistress, purring and rubbing 
against each rail of the stairs. 

The rooms above consisted of three. The stairs 
entered a dining room which served also as a salon. 
On the left was a porcelain stove, in a niche opposite 
stood a buffet; then chairs were ranged along the 
walls, a round table always stood in the centre of the 
room. Back of this dining room was a tiny kitchen, 
very dark, and on each side was a sleeping room. 

The old lady, having embraced her son and her 
daughter-in-law, went into her own room, the cat slept 
on a chair in the kitchen. The husband and wife 
entered their chamber, which had a second door and a 
staircase that led down into a very dark, narrow 
passage. 

The husband, who was always ill and feverish, pre- 
pared for bed, and his wife opened the window to close 
the blinds, and stood for some minutes before the great 
black wall that extended in front of her. She looked 
up and down this wall with vague, wandering eyes, and 
then turned away in disdainful indifference. 


TH^R^SE RAQUIN. 


27 


CHAPTER II. 

THE HERO AND HEROINE MARRY. 

M ADAME RAQUIN was from Vernon, where for 
twenty-five years she had kept a little shop. 
Some years after her husband’s death she sold out her 
stock and good will. Her savings, added to the amount 
brought in by this sale, gave her a capital of forty 
thousand francs, which she invested, and which brought 
her in an income of two thousand francs. 

This sum seemed to her quite enough to live on. 
She knew none of the joys or the sorrows of this world 
from this time forth, but lived a quiet, peaceful exist- 
ence, apart from the world. 

She hired for four hundred francs a little house, 
whose garden ran down to the Seine. It was a quiet 
home with a certain cloistral aspect; a straight path led 
to the house which stood in the centre of a large 
meadow — the windows looked out on the river and on 
the desolate hills on the opposite shore. The good 
lady, who was then over fifty, shut herself up in this 
solitude with her son Camille, and her niece TherSse. 

Camille was then twenty. His mother continued to 
spoil him as she had done when he was a little boy. 
She adored him because he had struggled through a 
succession of severe illnesses that had left him without 


28 


THERE SE RAQUIN. 


any constitution. For fifteen years, Madame Raquin 
had watched over the health of this dear son, and 
nursed him with indomitable patience, courage and 
love. 

Camille, as we have said, was never well — he was 
always suffering in one way or another. His physical 
development had been arrested, and he was undersized; 
his movements were always uncertain and slow. His 
mother loved him all the more for this fragility, and 
watched the varying expressions of his poor, pale face, 
with triumphant tenderness, saying to herself that she 
had given him life not once but at least ten times. 
During the rare intervals between his illnesses, the boy 
went to a commercial college in Vernon. He there 
learned spelling and arithmetic. His science was lim- 
ited to the four rules, and to a superficial knowledge of 
grammar. Later, he took lessons in writing and book- 
keeping. Madame Raquin trembled, when she was 
advised to send her son to college ; she knew that he 
would die were he to leave her, and that books would 
kill him. Camille therefore rested in comfortable igno- 
rance, and this ignorance was an additional element of 
weakness in his nature. 

At eighteen, wearied to death by the attentions with 
which his mother surrounded him, he entered a linen 
draper’s as book-keeper, at a salary of sixty francs per 
month. He was of a restless nature, and could not 
endure idleness. He was in better spirits and in better 
health, while bending over these long columns of 


TIIERESE RAQUTN. 


29 


figures, than when lounging about his mother’s house. 
He had been forced to quarrel with his mother in order 
to gain her consent to his acceptance of this situation. 
She wished to pin him to her side, lest an accident 
should come to him. The young man was determined 
to have his own way on this point, however — he 
demanded work as other children demand playthings — 
not from any sense of duty, but from an instinct, a 
necessity of his nature. The tenderness and devotion 
of his mother had made him intensely, ferociously 
selfish ; he fancied that he loved those who pitied him, 
and ministered to his happiness, but in reality he lived 
quite apart, within himself, loving no one but himself, 
caring only for his own comfort, and eager only for that 
which should best ensure it, and when irritated by his 
mother’s watchfulness, he, in order to escape from 
doses and potions, threw himself into an absorbing 
occupation during the day, and in the evening, walked 
with his cousin Ther&se on the shores of the Seine. 

Therdse was then eighteen. One day, sixteen years 
before which Madame Raquin was busy with her shop, 
her brother, Captain Degans, appeared before her with 
a little girl in his arms. He came from Algeria. 

“Here is a child of whom you are the aunt,” he 
said, with a smile. “Her mother is dead, I do not 
know what to do with her. I give her to you.” 

The aunt took the child in her arms, and kissed the 
rosy cheeks. Ddgans was eight days at Vernon. His 
sister questioned him closely in regard to this child, 


30 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


but succeeded simply in ascertaining that the little one 
was born at Oran, and that her mother was a woman 
of the country, and of great beauty. The captain, one 
hour before he left his sister, handed her an acte de 
naissance in which Th^rese, formerly recognized by 
him, bore his name. He went away and was never 
seen again by his sister, and several years later was 
killed in Africa. 

Ther&se grew up with Camille, as tenderly cared for 
and caressed as was he. She was exuberantly healthy, 
and yet she was watched as if she were the frailest of 
the frail, sharing her cousin’s medicines and constantly 
breathing the heated atmosphere of the room occupied 
by the little invalid. 

For hours she sat crouched before the fire watching 
the flames without lowering her eyelids. This life had 
naturally a marked effect upon her ; she fell into a way 
of speaking very softly — of walking on tiptoe — of 
remaining for hours, seated without moving a finger, 
and with wide-open eyes fixed on vacancy. But when 
she raised her arm or advanced her foot, one instantly 
realized that under that fair skin and elastic muscles 
lurked a host of slumbering passions. A certain feline 
suppleness also characterized her, though her energy 
and strength was something marvellous. 

One day her cousin fell unconscious ; she lifted him 
and bore him to his room with swift dexterit}^. The 
exertion tinged her cheeks with a brighter color, and 
flushed her brow, but she said not one word. The 


Tnf RESE RAQUIN. 


31 


secluded life she led, the debilitating regime to which 
she was subjected, did not diminish her vital force; her 
figure lost none of its roundness, but her face gradually 
became utterly colorless, her complexion lost its pink 
and white, and became almost yellow, consequently 
much of her beauty vanished with her coloring. 

When Madame Raquin took the little house near the 
water, Th^rese was thrilled with joy. Her aunt had 
said to her so continually, “ Hush ! don’t make such a 
noise ! ” that she had succeeded in controlling all 
outward demonstrations of her stormy nature. 

Her self-possession was something wonderful, and a 
certain stolid tranquillity vailed her hidden excitement. 
She always looked upon herself as in the vicinity of a 
dying child, so firmly impressed was she, by her aunt, 
with the conviction that her cousin was in very 
delicate health. Her movements were those of a 
woman in a sick room, her gestures and her voice were 
always soothing and placid. 

When she beheld the garden, the river, and the green 
hills lying off towards the horizon, she felt a mad long- 
ing to run and shout. She felt her heart beat wildly 
against the prison of her breast, but not one muscle in 
her face quivered. She merely smiled faintly, when 
her aunt asked if she were pleased with this new dwell- 
ing. Then life became infinitely easier and more 
agreeable for her. She preserved all the tranquillity of 
her manner — her calm indifferent expression of face, 
but within herself she lived a tumultuous, stormy 


32 THERESE RAQUIN. 

existence. When she was alone, she lay among the 
long grass by the river-side basking in the hot sun like 
some animal — her dark eyes wide open with an expres- 
sion of angry defiance. She indulged in the maddest 
dreams, and looked defiantly at the murmuring river, 
as if she believed that it was about to rise and attack 
her ; then she would start to her feet and prepare for 
defence, asking herself angrily how she could conquer 
these waters. 

In the evening, Thdr£se would sit near her aunt 
quietly sewing — her face looked very gentle as the 
subdued light from the shaded lamp fell upon it. 
Camille, lying back in his arm-chair, was busy adding 
up figures in his mind. 

Occasionally, a word or two uttered by one or the 
other disturbed for a moment the peaceful silence of 
this room. 

Madame Raquin looked from one to the other of her 
two children with tender affection. She had determined 
on their marriage, for she could not endure the thought 
of dying and leaving her son alone and ill. 

She therefore counted on Th6r$se, saying to herself 
that the young girl would certainly be as vigilant as 
herself, in regard to Camille’s health, for the girl had, 
by her silent devotion, inspired her aunt with entire 
and boundless confidence, and she felt that in marrying 
her son to such a woman, she was giving him a 
guardian angel. 

The marriage was openly discussed as a matter of 


TIIERiSE RAQUIN. 


33 


course ; and the young people knew perfectly well that 
it was entirely settled. Having known this from child- 
hood, the thought had become perfectly familiar. 

Madame Raquin had said, “we will wait until 
Thdrese is twenty-one.” 

They waited with no fever of the blood and no 
impatience. Camille had not outgrown his boyish 
liking for his cousin. He kissed her as he did his 
mother, with a certain amount of affection, but with 
no quickening of his pulse. He looked upon her as an 
agreeable companion — one who was always ready to 
gratify his whims and caprices, and to wait upon him 
by inches, and could make his gruels and flaxseed tea 
as no one else could ; he leaned on her shoulder as she 
aided him from his bed to a chair when he was recover- 
ing from one of his attacks, as he would have leaned 
on the shoulder of any youth of his own age, and 
never once had he thought of pressing those fresh lips 
with a lover’s kiss. 

Th^rese too was cold and indifferent. She some- 
times fixed her great eyes on Camille, and looked at 
him for several minutes with a calm, steady gaze; her 
lips alone sometimes quivered, but on this quiet face, 
which her immense self-control kept so firm, nothing 
that was going on within could be discovered. 

When her marriage was spoken of, Therese would 
become very grave, contenting herself with simple 
acquiescence in all that Madame Raquin said. 

On summer evenings, the two young people loitered 

2 




34 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 


down to the river side. Camille rebelled at his 
mother’s incessant watchfulness. He sometimes seemed 
determined to make himself ill; to do anything in 
short which should enable him to escape from all these 
cares which bored and worried him. 

Months and years elapsed. The day fixed for the 
marriage arrived. Madame Raquin took Ther£se 
aside, talked to her of her father and her mother, and 
related the story of her birth. The young girl listened 
with fixed attention, then kissed her aunt in silence 
and left the room. 

That night Thdrese, instead of going to her chamber 
on the left of the staircase, entered that of her cousin 
opposite. This was all the change that took place in 
her life. 

Camille’s quiet selfishness remained all undisturbed, 
and Th^rese was as quiet and as indifferent as ever. 


T II fl R E S E RAQUIN. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

REMOVAL TO PARIS. 

WEEK after his marriage Camille stated dis- 



JljL tinctly to his mother that he intended to leave 
Vernon and meant to live in Paris. 

Madame Raquin was greatly disturbed, and posi- 
tively refused. She had planned out the remainder of 
her life, and did not propose to change it in any way. 

Her son had an attack of the nerves, and threatened 
to be very ill if she did not yield. 

“ I have never opposed you in any way,” he said, 
“you wanted me to marry my cousin, I have done so. 
I have taken every dose of medicine you ever ordered, 
and it seems to me that the least you can do now is 
to yield to my wishes without making any objection. 
We shall leave at the end of the month.” 

Madame Raquin never closed her eyes that night. 
This decision of Camille’s was a great shock to her, 
and it seemed to her almost impossible that she could 
ever again make new plans. But by degrees, she 
accustomed herself to the idea. She reminded herself 
that this newly-married pair might have children, and 
then her small property would not be enough for them 
all to live upon. More money must be earned, and 
some lucrative occupation could easily be found for 


ThdrSse. 


36 


THERESE EAQUIN. 


In two more days, Madame Raquin had become 
accustomed to the idea of leaving Vernon, and had 
arranged all her plans. 

f She even became quite gay as she talked them over. 

* “Listen, children,” she said. “I will go to Paris 
to-morrow. I will see if I cannot buy out the stock 
and good-will of some thread and needle shop. This 
will give us two women something to do. You, Camille, 
will occupy yourself as you please ; you can stroll about 
the streets~until you are tired, or you can look for some 
employment.” 

“ I will find some employment,” answered the young 
man. 

The truth was, that Camille’s resolve was the result 
of his moderate ambition. He wished to be employed 
in some large establishment, and colored high with 
pleasure as he pictured himself in a vast Bureau with 
alpaca sleeves drawn up over his arms, and a pen 
behind his ears. 

Th^rSse was not consulted ; she had always shown 
such passive obedience, that both her aunt and her 
husband thought it unnecessary even to ask her 
opinion. She went where they went, she did what 
they did without a complaint, without a reproach, 
without even seeming to know that she had given up 
one residence for another. 

Madame Raquin went to Paris, and to the Passage 
du Pont-Neuf at once. An old maid at Vernon had 
sent her to one of her relatives, who kept a shop in this 


THEK^SE RAQUIN. 37 

P assage of which she was anxious to get rid. Madame 
Raquin thought the place dark and small, but she was 
so frightened by the noise of the streets, and by all the 
luxury she saw in the fashionable quarters of Paris, 
that this narrow lane and these modest windows 
recalled to her mind her old shop in Vernon, and even 
allowed her to fancy that she was once more in the 
provinces. 

She breathed more freely in this quiet corner than 
she had breathed since she left Vernon, and she came to 
the conclusion that her beloved children might easily 
be happy here. 

The modest price asked, finally decided her. The 
stock and good-will were valued at two thousand francs, 
while the rent of the shop and floor above was but 
twelve hundred. 

Madame Raquin, who had saved over four thousand 
francs, calculated that she could buy the stock and pay 
the first year’s rent, and not encroach on her capital. 

Camille’s salary and the sales they would make — her- 
self and Th£r&se — would suffice for their daily needs, 
and in that way she would not be compelled to touch 
the interest of her capital, but would allow it to roll 
up for her grandchildren. 

She returned to Vernon in the best of spirits, she 
said she had found a pearl — a most delicious spot in 
the heart of Paris. By degrees, and at the end of a 
few days, this dark, damp shop in this Passage had 
become a Palace in her eyes. She looked upon it as 


88 THEKESE RAQUIN. 

large, commodious, quiet and replete with unspeakable 
advantages. 

“Ah! my dear Th^rese,” she said, “you will see 
how happy we shall be in that new home ! There are 
three beautiful rooms up-stairs. The Passage is con- 
stantly crowded with people. We will arrange our 
shop windows in the most attractive manner. You 
may be sure, my dear, that we shall never be bored ! ” 

The old lady talked on incessantly. All the instincts 
of an old shopkeeper revived within her. She gave 
advice to Thdr£se on the sales and on the purchases 
she should make, and confided to her more than one 
trick of the trade. 

Finally, the family left the house on the shore of the 
Seine, and that same evening they installed themselves 
in the Passage du Pont-Neuf. 

When Th6r£se entered the shop where she was to 
spend her future life, it seemed to her that she was 
going into a cold, damp cellar. She shivered with a 
ghastly kind of dread. 

She looked out at the black lane, she inspected the 
shop, and finally went up stairs and examined every 
room, which, utterly nude of furniture, struck terror to 
her soul, so ghastly and dreary did they look. 

Th6r£se said not one word, nor did she make one 
single gesture of surprise. She was as if frozen. 
When her aunt and her husband went down stairs, she 
seated herself on a chair with hands loosely clasped on 
her knees. A smothered sob shook her from head to 
foot. 


TH^RESE RAQUItf. 


39 


Madame Raquin, now that she was face to face with 
the realit} r , was somewhat embarrassed and ashamed of 
her dreams. She defended her acquisition, and found a 
remedy for each new inconvenience they encountered, 
reasoned away the darkness by saying that the weather 
was cloudy, and ended by saying that a little soap and 
water, and good use of brooms and brushes, would 
make all right. 

“ Nonsense ! ” answered Camille, “ it is all well 
enough. Besides, we shall never be up stairs in the 
daytime. I shall always be out until five or six 
o’clock, and you two women will be very comfortable 
together here.” 

Never would the young man have consented to 
occupy this dismal hole, had he not relied on the 
comforts of the clerkship he anticipated. He said to 
himself that he would be, of course, quite warm enough 
all day in his office, and at night he would go to bed 
almost as soon as he got home. 

For a whole week, the shop and the house remained 
in disorder. On the very first day, ThdrSse took her 
seat behind the counter, and never moved. Madame 
Raquin was astonished at this acquiescence. She had 
supposed that the young wife would seek to embellish 
her home — to put flowers at the windows, and ask for 
new papers, curtains and carpets. When she herself 
proposed some alterations, her niece answered quietly: 

“And why, pray? We are very well as we are. 
We ought not to think of such luxuries.” 


40 


THEKESE R A QUIN. 


Camille was a whole month before he found any 
employment ; but during this time he was as little as 
possible in the shop. He spent the greater part of the 
day in the street. He was so disappointed and discour- 
aged, that lie began to talk of going back to Vernon. 

At last, however, he obtained a position in the office 
of a Railway Company — that of Orleans, at a salary 
of one hundred francs per month. He left in the 
morning at eight o’clock, and started with his hands 
in his pockets, along the Seine, from the Institute 
to the Jardin des Plantes. This long walk, which he 
took twice each day, did not fatigue him in body or 
mind. He looked at- the water, watched its ripples, 
and the wood boats on the river. But he thought of 
nothing as he looked. 

He often took his stand before Notre Dame , and 
examined with some curiosity the scaffolding by which 
the church, then in process of repair, was surrounded. 
These heavy timbers amused him, he hardly knew why. 
Then, as he passed, he glanced at the Port Aux Vins , 
and counted the fiacres coming from the station. 

At night, with his head full of some silly tale he had 
heard in the office, he crossed the Jardin des Plantes 
and went to see the bears, if he were not in too great 
haste. 

He remained there a half-hour, leaning over the 
pit, watching the bears — the clumsy animals amused 
him. He watched them with his under jaw dropped, 
taking an imbecile sort of pleasure in their movements. 


T II £ R E S E R A Q TT I N . 


41 


Tt was with reluctance that he turned his face home- 
ward — lie much disliked leaving behind him the gay 
shops and carriages. 

He ate his supper as soon as he entered the house, 
and then sat down to reading. He had bought Buffon’s 
works, and each night he gave himself a certain number 
of pages to read, notwithstanding the fact that he 
found such reading very dull. 

He also grappled with and conquered Thiers’ 
Histoire da Consulat et cle V Empire, and Lamartine's 
Histoire des Girondins, and also some other works of a 
similar character. He called this educating himself. 

Sometimes he insisted on his wife listening while he 
read certain pages and certain anecdotes. He ex- 
pressed great astonishment that Thdrdse could sit a 
whole evening without once opening a book; and 
made up his mind that his wife's intelligence was of 
a very low order. 

Tiidrese pushed aside his books impatiently. She 
preferred to remain utterly idle, with her eyes fixed 
on some distant object, and her thoughts far away. She 
preserved, however, her even temper; all her strong 
will* was exerted to make herself a mere passive instru- 
ment, with no characteristic save that of supreme self- 
abnegation. 

Then business went on very smoothly, their receipts 
each month were just about the same. Their cus- 
tomers were composed of workwomen of the Qnartier. 
Every two or three minutes a young girl would enter 


42 


TIIERESE RAQUIN. 


and buy a few sous’ worth. Thdrese served her cus- 
tomers with precisely the same words to all, and with 
the same mechanical smile on her lips. Madame Ra- 
quin was more demonstrative, and more talkative, and 
truth to tell, she it was, who attracted and retained 
their customers. For three years, each day that passed 
was exactly like those that preceded and followed it. 
Camille was not away from his office for twenty-four 
consecutive hours ; his mother and his wife rarely left 
the shop. 

Th6r&se lived in darkness — in mournful, monotonous 
silence, and saw life extending itself before her, empty 
and joyless. 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 


43 


CHAPTER IV. 

MADAME RAQUIN’S RECEPTIONS. 

E VERY Thursday evening the Raquin family 
received their friends. The large lamp in the 
dining-room was lighted, and the kettle boiling to make 
the tea. This weekly entertainment had come to be 
looked on in the family as an absolute orgie — particu- 
larly as the festivity did not break up until after eleven 
o’clock. 

Madame Raquin had stumbled across an old acquain- 
tance in an old police officer, who had come from Ver- 
non, and who in fact had lived under the same roof 
with her for twenty years, at the time when she kept 
her flourishing shop. At that time they were great 
friends, but after she sold out and purchased her little 
house by the water, they had lost sight of each other. 

Michaud left Vernon after a time, and went to Paris 
to enjoy his pension. One rainy day he chanced to 
meet his old friend in the Passage du Pont-Neuf, and 
that same evening went home to dinner with her. 

It was in this way that the Thursday evening recep- 
tions came to pass. The old police officer formed the 
habit of coming there regularly once each week, and 
after a time he brought his son Olivier — a man of 
thirty — tall and thin, who had married a very small 


44 


THER^SE RAQUIN. 


woman, who was always out of health. Olivier held a 
position at the Prefecture de Police , at a salary of three 
thousand francs, which greatly excited Camille’s 
jealousy. 

ThdrSse detested this man, who seemed to feel that 
in coming to their house he did them infinite honor, 
and looked down upon them with an air of great con- 
descension. 

Camille introduced another guest, an old employ 6 in 
the Orleans Railway Company. Grivet had been in 
the service of this company for twenty years — he was 
head clerk, and received two thousand francs. It was 
he who arranged the duties of all the under clerks, and 
Camille treated him with great respect. In his own 
heart he said to himself that Grivet would die some 
fine day, in ten years perhaps, and that then he might 
replace him. 

Grivet was greatly charmed at the cordial reception 
accorded him by Madame Raquin ; he came back every 
week with unfailing regularity, and in six months 
began to look upon this Thursday visit as a duty. 
He went to the Passage du Pont-Neuf every Thurs- 
day as he went every day to his office, mechanically 
and as by instinct. 

After a time these reunions became quite charming. 
At seven o’clock Madame Raquin lighted the fire, 
placed the lamp in the centre of the table, laid the 
dominos upon it, dusted the tea equipage on the buffet, 
and all was in readiness. 


T E JE R E S E RAQUIK. 


45 


As the clock struck eight, punctual to the minute, 
old Michaud and Grivet met in front of the shop, one 
coming from la Rue de Seine , the other from la Rue 
Mazarin. They entered, and then all the family met 
up-stairs, where they seated themselves around the 
table ; but Olivier, Michaud, and his wife, had not yet 
arrived. 

After they came, Madame Raquin poured out tea, 
Camille opened the box of dominos* and they began 
their game. Nothing was heard after this but the 
rattle of the dominos on the oil-cloth cover of the 
table. After each game the players quarreled a few 
minutes, and then relapsed into this dreary silence, 
broken only by the sharp sounds of the pieces of ivory 
knocking against each other. 

Therese played with an indifference that annoyed 
Camille beyond words. She took on her lap Francois, 
the great cat that Madame Raquin had brought from 
Vernon, and with one hand caressed the animal, while 
with the other she pushed the dominos about. 

Thursday evenings were a torture to her — she often 
complained of a headache and of not feeling well, that 
she might be allowed to remain undisturbed in a cor- 
ner. With her head on her hand she looked at these 
visitors — her husband’s and mother’s guests — she saw 
them through a yellow mist that rose from the lamp. 
All these people exasperated her. She looked from 
one to the other in profound disgust, and dumb irri- 
tation. 


46 TH^EESE EAQUIK. 

Old Michaud’s face was pale and wrinkled, with red 
lines and blotches upon it — one of those faces which 
one often sees in the old who are approaching second 
childhood. Grivet had the narrow brow, the round 
eyes and thin lips of a cretin. Olivier, who was so 
thin that his bones seemed to be coming through his 
cheeks, exasperated her with his insignificant face and 
head, and the pomposity of his manner. And Susanne, 
Olivier’s wife, was always pale to her very lips, her 
eyes sunken, and her brow contracted with pain. 

Th&rese sometimes asked herself if she were with 
living creatures. Was she not shut up in a vault with 
galvanized corpses? Or with skeletons whose limbs 
moved when certain strings were pulled ? The heavy 
air of the room choked and stifled her, the silence and 
the flaring yellow light of the lamp filled her with 
vague dismay. 

To the door of the shop a bell had been affixed ; this 
bell announced the arrival of customers. Ther£se 
listened eagerly for the sound, and as soon as she heard 
it she hurried down stairs, eager and thankful to leave 
the dining-room. She served her customers slowly and 
deliberately. When she was alone, she seated herself 
behind the counter, where she remained as long as she 
dared, only too glad that Grivet and Olivier were no 
longer before her eyes. The damp air of the shop 
cooled her hot brow and the fever that rendered her 
hands absolutely burning. 

But she was not allowed a very long absence. 


THJERESE raquin. 


47 


Camille was vexed. He could not understand how any- 
one could prefer the shop to the dining-room on these 
festive Thursday evenings. He would speedily come 
to the stair rail, and leaning over would call out to his 
wife : 

“ What the deuce are you doing there ? Why don’t 
you come back? Grivet is still winning, he certainly 
has the most devilish luck ! ” 

His wife would rise slowly and reluctantly, and 
returning to the dining-room would take her seat oppo- 
site old Michaud, whose pendulous lips quivered with an 
idiotic laugh. And as the evening wore on she kept 
her eyes fixed on the cat in her arms, rather than see 
these gibbering, senseless faces about her. 


48 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER V. 


A NEW ARRIVAL 


NE day, coming from his office, Camille brought 



yj with him a tall, good-looking fellow, whom he 
pushed into the shop in a familiar sort of way. 

“Mother,” he said to Madame Raquin, “do you 
recognize this gentleman ? ” 

The old lady looked at the stranger attentively, but 
was obliged to say that her memory did not recall his 
face. Th6rese looked on with her usual air of placid 
indifference. 

“ What !” exclaimed Camille, “you don’t recognize 
Laurent, whom we used to call little Laurent, and 
whose father used to have such splendid fields of wheat 
near Jenfosse ? You don’t remember him? Why! I 
went to school with him, he came for me every morn- 
ing, and j'oii used to give him slices of bread with 
sweetmeats spread upon them ! ” 

Madame admitted that she remembered little Lau- 
rent, but how could she be expected to know him when 
he had grown to such an enormous height, she asked. 
It was twenty years since she had seen him. She 
talked on rapidly, recalling many incidents of his child- 
hood, hoping that she would thus make him forget her 
astonished reception. 


THEIJESE EAQUIN. 


49 


Laurent seated himself with an easy air, and looked 
around the shop. 

“Just imagine!” said Camille. “This fellow has 
been in the employment of the Orleans Railroad Com- 
pany for eighteen months, and yet we never met until 
to-day. You see the administration is on so gigantic 
a scale that a man hardly knows who is in the next 
room.” 

The young man made this remark in a pompous 
tone, for he was very proud of being the fly on the 
wheel of this cumbrous machine. 

He continued, shaking his head : 

“ He is doing well — this fellow is — * he has studied, 
and has made some money. His father sent him to 
college, he has studied law, and can paint.” 

“ Is that so, Laurent? You will dine with us ? ” said 
the old lady. 

“ I shall be most happy to do so,” answered Laurent 
frankly. 

He laid his hat on a table, with an air as if he did 
not intend to take it up for some time. 

Madame Raquin ran to her saucepans. 

Th^rSse, who had not spoken a word, looked at the 
new comer. She had never seen any one like him. 
His look of health and youth astonished her. She 
contemplated with admiration his low brow and thick 
black hair, his clear skin and bright eyes. 

She examined his hands spread out on his knees, the 
fingers were square at the ends. When closed they 
3 


50 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


must have been enormous. Laurent was a true peasant’s 
son — slow in his movements, ponderous, a little round- 
shouldered, and with an expression of great obstinacy. 

Camille displayed his volumes of Buffon and his 
other books, in order to convince his friend that he too 
could work. Then in response to a question which the 
other had apparently addressed to him a few minutes 
before, he said : 

“But you ought to know my wife, Laurent? You 
surely have not forgotten the little cousin who used to 
play with us at Vernon ? ” 

“ I recognized Madame at once,” answered Laurent, 
looking Therese full in the face. 

She started, and with a forced smile said a few words 
to Laurent and her husband, then she hastened to join 
her aunt, for she felt strangely ill. 

They took their seats at the table, and while they ate 
their soup, Camille continued to question his newly- 
found friend. 

“ And your father, how is he ? ” 

“Ah! that I do not know,” answered Laurent, “for 
I am sorry to say that we quarreled five years ago and 
have not met since, nor have we written to each other 
in that time.” 

“ What ! ” cried Camille. He was too shocked to 
say more. 

“ Yes, the dear man had some most peculiar ideas. 
He is constantly having law-suits with his neighbors, 
and sent me to study law that he might have an 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


51 


attorney ready to his hand. You see, his very follies 
he turns to his advantage.” 

“ And you did not care to be a lawyer ? ” asked 
Camille, more and more astonished. 

“ Indeed, I did not,” answered his friend, with a 
laugh. “ For two years I pretended to study, in order 
that I might receive the allowance of twelve hundred 
francs that my father gave me. I lived with one of 
my friends who was an artist, and I tried painting. I 
found the trade an amusing one, and not fatiguing. 
We smoked and we talked all day.” 

The Raquin family opened astonished eyes. 

“Unfortunately,” continued Laurent, “this could 
not last. My father discovered that I was not telling 
him the truth, and he cut off my supplies and told me 
to come home and plough the ground with him. 
I then tried to paint pictures of Sacred Art, but I did 
not make much money that way. I soon saw that I 
should die of hunger, and I sent Art to the deuce, 
and looked about for something to do. My father will 
die some day, and I am looking forward to that time to 
live in idleness.” 

Laurent spoke in a calm, self-satisfied tone. He had 
just told a story that painted him to the life, for he 
was indolent in body and mind, his passions w r ere 
strong, and he longed for opportunities of indulging 
them. He wanted to live well, eat well, and sleep well, 
but he did not intend to take much trouble to achieve 
even these ends. 


52 


T II E E E S E EAQUIN. 


The legal profession had frightened him, and he 
shuddered at the idea of tilling the ground as his 
father had pleasantly suggested. He had attempted 
Art with the idea that it was an indolent profession, in 
which he might hope to make money. He thought the 
brush an easy instrument to manage, and success a 
very simple thing. 

His dreams and hopes were of the most luxurious 
character. He wanted all that life could give, and 
intended to have it. These dreams lasted as long as 
his father continued to send him money. But when 
Laurent, at the age of thirty, saw that he was thrown 
entirely on his own exertions he began to take a new 
view of life. He was a very coward before poverty, 
and would not have gone to bed hungry to win the 
most glorious triumph in Art. 

He therefore sent painting to the deuce on the day 
that he clearly perceived that it could not content his 
inordinate desires. His first attempts were very poor. 
His peasant’s eye saw the beauties of nature indistinctly 
and insufficiently, and his canvases were below 
criticism. 

But it was not because he was discouraged as an 
artist that he threw aside his brushes ; he w r as discour- 
aged simply by the conviction that money would come 
in very slowly. 

He regretted moreover the vast and commodious 
atelier of his friend, in which he had lived so comfort- 
ably for four or five years. He regretted the pretty 


THERE SE RAQUIN. 53 

women who had come to this studio as models, and he 
regretted much more in this careless, easy life. 

He was very fortunate to find a position at a very 
good salary, where too he was not very much worked; 
but he grumbled a good deal that he could not eat at 
better restaurants. 

Camille listened to him with stupid astonishment. 

“Do you mean,” he said, “that these women who 
came to your studio as models, were nude ? ” 

“ Why, certainly I do,” answered Laurent, with a 
glance at Th£r£se, who, instead of flushing turned very 
pale. 

“ That must be a little awkward,” said Camille, with 
a boyish laugh. “ I really think I should have been 
very uncomfortable, and you, how did you feel the first 
time ? ” 

Laurent had opened one of his hands wide and was 
examining the palm attentively. He did not look up 
as he answered, 

“The first time,” he repeated, slowly, “I hardly 
remember, it seemed natural enough. The fact is that 
Art is a very amusing thing, it is a pity that it is not 
a paying one. I had a superb brunette as a model. 
Her head was magnificently put on her shoulders, and 
her arms and bust glittered like marble.” He checked 
himself and looked at Th6r£se. 

He was startled at the expression of her face. She 
was gazing at him with eyes strangely fixed, fathomless 
in their depth, and her parted, breathless lips showed 


54 


THEEESE RAQUIN. 


the regular line of her white teeth. Laurent looked 
from Ther£se to Camille. He smiled faintly and 
shrugged his shoulders. The bell rang at that moment, 
and Madame Raquin went down to serve a client, 
leaving the dessert that she had just placed on the 
table. 

When dinner was over, Laurent, who had been very 
thoughtful for some minutes, turned suddenly to 
Camille. 

“ I want to paint your portrait,” he said. 

This idea enchanted Madame Raquin, and her son. 

Thirese was silent. 

“ These summer days are long,” said Laurent, “ and 
as we leave the office at four o’clock, I could come here 
then and paint for two hours. I can finish the picture 
in ten days.” 

“ Agreed,” answered Camille, flushed with joy; “you 
will dine every day with us. I will have my hair 
frizzed at the barber’s, and will get out my best coat.” 

The clock struck eight. Grivet and Michaud came 
in, followed shortly by Suzanne and Olivier. 

Camille presented his friend to the circle. Grivet 
compressed his lips tightly. He detested Laurent, 
whose advancement, in his opinion, had been altogether 
too rapid. Besides, a stranger among them was an 
unheard-of event, and could not be received by the 
guests of the Raquins without some coldness. Laurent 
was very amiable, and, grasping the situation, exerted 
himself to please, and succeeded in thawing the ice, 
and being regarded as one of the circle. 


THERESE RAQEIN. 


55 


He told stories, imparted additional gayety to the 
soiree by his hearty laugh, and finally conquered even. 
Grivet himself. 

Ther^se, that evening was not anxious to go down 
to the shop, she was quite willing to stay where she 
was, played dominos and talked with unwonted anima- 
tion. She never looked toward Laurent, but his 
presence strangely disturbed her, and she never once 
forgot that he was in the room. 


56 


THISKESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

PORTRAIT PAINTING. 

AURENT from this day came almost every evening 



JLJ to the Raquins’. He hired a small furnished 
room in the upper floor of a house in la Rue Saint- 
Victor, for which he paid eighteen francs per month. 
This room was lighted by a window in the roof, and 
was not more than six yards square. Naturally, 
Laurent was not anxious to return to it any earlier 
than he could avoid. 

Before meeting Camille, as he had not money to waste 
at cabarets, he remained at the Cremerie , where he 
dined, smoked pipes, and took an occasional glass of 
beer. Then he slowly sauntered to la Rue Victor, stop- 
ping, if the evening were pleasant, to sit under the trees. 

The shop in the Passage du Pont-Pfeuf became, 
to him therefore, a most delightful resort, where he 
■ f received much friendly attention. He saved the money 
he would have expended on beer, and drank, instead, 
Madame Raquin’s excellent tea. He remained until 
after tea, as much at ease as if at home, and always 
assisted Camille in shutting the shop before he went 
away. One night he brought his easels and color 
box, for, as he said, he meant to begin Camille’s por- 
trait. The next day a canvas was purchased, stretched 
and prepared, and then the artist went to work select- 


THERESE RAQUItf. 57 

ing, as having the best light, the room belonging to 
Camille and his wife. 

He was there evenings, drawing the head, making 
his strokes with infinite pains. His drawing was a 
grotesque exaggeration of the early masters. He copied 
Camille’s face as a pupil copies at the Academy, with a 
hesitating hand, and with an awkward fidelity that 
imparted to the face the quaintest and stiffest expres- 
sion. The fourth day he set his pallette and begun to 
peck at his canvas with the tips of his brushes, which 
he handled very much as if they had been pencils. At 
the end of each sitting Madame Raquin and Camille 
were in ecstacies. Laurent said they must wait, that 
the resemblance would come. 

Therese never left the room, now transformed into 
an atSlier. She left her aunt alone in the shop, and 
could not tear herself away from Laurent’s easel — 
always grave and silent, and now more pale and mute 
than ever, she seated herself and looked on. 

She did not seem to be greatly amused, but more as 
if she were fascinated and could not keep away. Lau- 
rent would occasionally half turn and smilingly ask if the 
portrait pleased her. She rarely replied in words, only 
with a nod, and then relapsed into her silent ecstasy. 

Laurent, as he walked home at night to la Rue Saint - 
Victor , reasoned with himself for and against becoming 
the lover of Ther&se. 

“ She is a pretty woman,” he said, “ and I have but 
to hold up my finger. She is a strange creature, full 
of passion and quick impulses in spite of her reserved, 


58 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


quiet ways. She wants a lover, I’ll be bound, for 
Camille must be a wretched apology for one.” 

Laurent laughed aloud, and then went on in the 
same train of thought. 

“ She is bored to death in this shop, I can see that 
easily enough. I go there because I don’t know where 
else to go. If I did, little of me would they see in the 
Passage da Pont-Neuf ! It is damp and dreary beyond 
words. I should think a woman would die there in a 
week. She likes me — I can easily see that — then 
why not me as well as another, I should like to 
know ? ” 

He stopped, and with a coxcomb-like smile, he 
looked down at the Seine rolling past. 

“I called her a pretty woman, but I was wrong, 
after all,” he thought, “her nose is too long and her 
mouth is enormous. Perhaps I might as well let her 
alone. Who knows what trouble I may get into ? I 
must look before I leap.” 

Laurent, who was of a most cautious disposition, 
weighed this matter for more than a week, and finally 
decided not to take any steps until he saw clearly that 
it was to his interest to do so. 

In his e}'es Th6r£se was ugly, he was not in the 
least attracted by her, but on the other side she would 
cost him nothing — and that was no small consideration 
with him — as he had not much money. 

It would be to the interest of Th£r£se to conceal his 
advances, and he could leave her, of course, whenever 
he pleased ; and provided Camille discovered what was 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


59 


going on and was angry, he could quickly silence the 
poor little wretch with his huge fist. 

From that moment, having made up his mind to risk 
it, he only waited his opportunity. He determined to 
make use of all the Raquins — Madame Raquin would 
look out for him in a motherly sort of way, and Camille 
would amuse him and keep him from being bored in 
the evening. 

The portrait was nearly finished and he had never 
been alone with Therese, although she was always in 
the room ; but Camille never left it. 

Madame Raquin said that when the picture was 
finished they must make a little f6te, and all dine 
together. 

The next day, when Laurent announced that he had 
given the last stroke of the brush to his canvas, all the 
family agreed in pronouncing the resemblance most 
extraordinary. The portrait was thoroughly ignoble. 
Laurent could not employ brilliant colors without 
rendering them muddy and thick. He had exaggerated 
Camille’s yellow pallor, and the face bore a ghastly 
resemblance to that of a man who had died by drown- 
ing. But Camille was enchanted, and said that on 
canvas he had a most distinguished air. 

When he had admired himself, or rather his repre- 
sentation, he said he would go out for a couple of 
bottles of champagne. Madame Raquin went down to 
the shop. 

The artist was at last alone with Th^rSse. 


60 


THEKESE EAQUIN. 


CHAPTER VII. 


FRANCOIS, THE CAT 


ROM the very beginning the lovers regarded their 



intimacy as natural, unavoidable and fatal. It 
seemed to them both that they had always loved each 
other, and been on these terms for years. 

They accepted their situation with the most perfect 
ease and impudence. 

As Ther&se never went out, it was decided that Lau- 
rent must see her under her own roof. She calmly and 
steadily explained to him the plan she had arranged. 

He must come in by the door that opened in the 
alley, and ascend the stairs to her room. Madame 
Raquin would be below in the shop, and Camille at his 
office. 

Laurent agreed. The very daring that characterized 
this step seemed to ensure its safety, and he had, 
' with all his caution, that brutal courage which is born 
of physical strength. Before many days had elapsed, 
he asked and obtained leave from his Chef two hours 
of liberty, and hurried to the Passage du Pont-Neuf. 

When he reached the entrance of the alley he real- 
ized that the woman who sold false jewelry must be 
occupied before he could dare enter the alley. He 
waited, therefore, until a young grisette stopped to buy 
earrings and a pin of brass washed with gold. 


therese raquin. 


61 


Then he glided into the dark shadow of the alley 
and mounted the stairs, feeling his way up by the 
damp walls. 

A door opened softly and he saw Thdr£se. Never 
before had he thought her beautiful. Her face was 
transfigured, her complexion looked as if a light were 
burning within, under the transparent skin. The pas- 
sionate blood of her African mother rippled within her 
veins. 

From this day forth Th£r£se became a part of his 
life. 

“ You cannot imagine,” she said, “how much I have 
suffered. I have spent my whole life in the room of 
an invalid. Often, when a girl, I was with Camille 
when he was not expected to live from one hour to 
another. He was ill-natured and obstinate. He would 
not take any medicine unless I did the same. How I 
lived I can’t imagine, all these days have ruined my 
good looks, but I never cared for that until now ! ” 

She wept as she told the story of her life. 

“ I wish them no harm,” she sobbed, “ they educated 
me and brought me up, and prevented my dying of 
starvation. But I should have preferred abandonment 
to such hospitality. I needed fresh air, and an out-of- 
door life. When I was very little, I used to imagine 
myself going from door to door asking alms, and I 
enjoyed the idea, for I was a thorough Bohemian at 
heart. I have been told that my mother was the 
daughter of the chief of an African tribe. I have often 


62 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


dreamed of her, and have pictured to myself the hot 
desert sands, and she wading through them knee deep, 
with me, an infant, on her shoulder. I shiver now with 
disgust as I recall the long days that I passed as a child 
and young girl in Camille’s room, where he tossed and 
moaned in fever. I used to crouch on the hearth rug 
in front of the fire, and watch the tisane bubble in 
the sauce pan. I could not move, for if I did my 
aunt would scold me, for she allowed no noise or 
excitement in Camille’s room. Later, I had some 
happy hours, when we lived in that little house by the 
water; but I could no longer run. I had almost lost 
the use of my limbs then, and I crawled rather than 
walked down that long garden walk to the river.” 

Th^rSse caught her breath, and her slender nostrils 
dilated. 

“ You cannot imagine,” she repeated, “how bad they 
have made me. They have transformed me into what 
Nature never intended me for — a hypocrite and a liar. 
They have stifled me in their bourgeois home, and I 
wonder that a drop of blood remains in my veins. I 
have dropped my eyelids, my face has worn a serene, 
almost imbecile expression. I have been but half 
alive. Say ! when you saw me first, did you not think 
me dull and stupid ? ” 

Th6r$se stopped to dash the tears away, and then 
went on : 

“ I had no hope of any change, and thought seriously 
of throwing myself into the river. At Vernon, on 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


63 


those cold, wintry nights, I used to lie awake and 
weep, stifling my cries in my pillow. Several times 
I thought of running away, but my courage failed — 
they had made a docile beast of burthen of me by 
their kindness and benevolence. Then I lied, and 
I have continued to lie, for I pretended to be gentle 
and grateful, while in reality I could have torn my 
aunt and my cousin, limb from limb ! ” 

After a short silence Th6r&se went on : 

“ I know not why I consented to marry Camille. I 
did not offer the smallest objection, for I pitied the 
poor boy. As a child, when I played with him, it 
seemed to me that he was made of soft clay that I 
could mould as I pleased. I accepted him as my hus- 
band because my aunt wished it, and I found him the 
same sickly child over whom I had watched so many 
dreary nights.” 

“ Then you came,” continued Th6r£se. “ And I 
loved you from the moment I saw you. You remem- 
ber when you first came here to paint, I could not 
leave the room when you were here. I kissed the 
very floor where you had stood, the easel which your 
hands had touched, the moment you had gone.” 

Thdr'Sse seemed to enjoy the very audacity of her 
crime. She had not a hesitation, not a fear. She 
braved all danger, even sought it. When her lover 
was coming, she told her aunt that she was not well, 
and must go to her room and rest ; and when he came, 
she never thought of lowering her voice or avoiding a 
noise. 


64 


TH&RESE PvAQUIN. 


Sometimes Laurent would say to her : 

“ For Heaven’s sake ! Th6r£se, don’t make a noise. 
Madame Raquin will certainly come up ! ’’ 

“ Pshaw ! ” she would answer with a laugh. “ She 
is nailed at her counter. She would not dare come 
here lest her goods below' should be stolen. Suppose 
she did come, what then? Could you not hide? I 
am not afraid ! I love you ! ” 

These words did not in the least reassure Laurent, 
passion had not yet lulled his peasant caution to 
sleep. But after a time custom blunted his fears, and 
he ceased to regard these rendezvous as dangerous. 
Th6r£se told him danger spares those who look it 
squarely in the face, and she was right. Never could 
these lovers have found so secure a place for these 
meetings, as in this place, not ten feet from the old 
lady in the shop below. 

One day, Madame Raquin took into her head that 
her niece must be ill, as she had been up stairs for 
nearly three hours. Thdr^se never even locked the 
door. 

When Laurent heard the heavy step of the old lady, 
slowly ascending the creaking v^ooden staircase, he 
snatched his hat to depart ; but Th6r£se laughed at him, 
and with an imperative gesture pushed him toward a 
wardrobe at the end of which several skirts were 
hanging. Then, without any haste, she pulled these 
skirts over Laurent, and throwing herself on a couch 
near by, waited. ^ 


THEEESE RAQUIN. 


65 


In another second the door was pushed open, and 
Madame Raquin appeared. She came on tip-toe up to 
the couch. 

“Ther£se,” she said, “are you ill, daughter?” 

Th^rese opened her eyes slowly, shading them from 
the light with her hand, and complaining of a fearful 
headache, begged her aunt to let her sleep. 

The old lady went away as she had come, on the 
points of her toes, in order not to make a noise. 

As soon as the door closed, Th^rdse exclaimed : 

“ There ! what did I tell you ? All these people are 
blind, they know nothing of love ! ” 

Th6r$se had the strangest ideas, and said the 
strangest things, and Laurent sometimes asked himself 
anxiously if her mind were altogether right. 

The cat, Francois, was seated one day in the centre of 
the room, he looked from one to the other of the two 
lovers with a most diabolical expression. 

“ Look at Francis,” said Th^rSse to Laurent. “ He 
behaves as if he meant to tell everything to Camille 
to-night. Would it not be a nice thing if some time 
he should learn to talk. I fancy that Camille might 
not be pleased with some of the things Francis could 
tell him ! ” 

4 


66 


TIIEBESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A SILENT KISS. 

I N the shop, of evenings, Laurent was perfectly 
happy. Generally he came home from the office 
with Camille. Madame Raquin had taken a motherly 
fancy for him. She knew that he was wretchedly 
uncomfortable in his garret, and had told him that 
there was always a seat for him at her table. She 
loved him with the tenderness that old people fre- 
quently feel for those persons who come from their 
former homes, and bring with them reminiscences of 
the Past. 

The young man did not hesitate to avail himself of 
this hospitality. When he and Camille left the office, 
they generally took a long walk together, both men 
enjoying their companionship. Then they turned 
their faces toward Madame Raquin’s, to eat the dinner 
she had carefully prepared for them. Laurent was 
perfectly at home in the shop, lolled in one chair with 
his feet in another, and smoked whenever he pleased. 

He was never disturbed by the presence of Th^rese, 
he treated her with friendly familiarity, made little 
jokes and paid her common-place compliments, all of 
which never disturbed a muscle in her face. Camille 
laughed, and as his wife only answered his friend in 


THERESE RAQUIN. 67 

monosyllables he took it into his head that the two 
detested each other. 

One day, he even went so far as to reproach Th6r£se 
for her coldness, and what he was pleased to call her 
rudeness toward Laurent. 

Laurent had managed most adroitly. He had 
become the lover of the wife, the friend of the hus- 
band, and the spoiled child of the mother. He had 
never been so comfortable in his life, and never once 
did he feel either compunction or shame when he 
thought of his position in this family. He was no 
longer cautious in mounting guard over his own looks 
or words, for he felt absolute reliance on his own 
instincts of prudence. When he saw Th6r£se in the 
presence of her family, she became to him another 
woman, and he never troubled himself to ask what the 
result of a discovery would be. His very selfishness 
prevented him from now making a single false step. 

Th^rese, infinitely more nervous, was obliged to play 
a role, and she played it to perfection, thanks to the 
hypocrisy which was the natural result of her educa- 
tion. 

For more than fifteen years she had lied, using all 
her native energy to appear calm and indifferent, when 
in reality her whole nature was in revolt. It cost her 
little in these days to resume the mask into which she 
had trained her features. 

When Laurent came into the shop he found her 
always there, with her grave, quiet look, her compres- 


68 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


sed lips and waxen pallor, and it seemed to him there 
were two women — one whom he alone knew — a 
creature all flame and passion, and this other Th£r$se 
who moved noiselessly about the shop with swift, glid- 
ing step. He looked at her at these times and said to 
himself : 

“ Yes, there is no doubt about it, she is certainly a 
very plain woman.” 

She, poor creature, found a depraved delight in 
deceiving Camille and Madame Raquin. She, unlike 
Laurent, was perfectly aware of the nature and extent 
of her crime, but she gloried in it and sometimes with 
difficulty restrained herself, as they all sat at table, from 
rising and going round to him, and with one hand on 
his shoulder, telling them all that he was her lover, and 
bidding them drive her forth from her roof with him. 

Some days she was in such good spirits that she 
sang aloud. These sudden gayeties charmed her aunt, 
who had often felt that her niece was far too grave. 

Ther&se bought flowers and placed them in the 
windows of the room, which she papered anew ; she 
wanted curtains, carpets and rose-wood furniture. All 
this luxury was for Laurent. 

Nature and circumstances seemed to have made this 
woman for this man, and to have drawn them together. 
The woman was a bundle of nerves, the man a mere 
brute. Were not these strong ties to bind them 
together ? They completed each other and protected 
each other. 


THERESE R A QUIN. 


69 


In the evening, in the yellow light of the lamp, a 
looker-on might have realized the strength of their 
union by looking from the stolid, smiling face of 
Laurent to the mute, impenetrable mask of the woman 
who sat opposite. 

These were calm and quiet evenings — they all sat 
around the table talking of the thousand nothings of 
the day, of the occurrences of yesterday, of the morrow’s 
anticipations. 

Camille loved Laurent as much as so selfish a mar* 
could love any one, and to all appearance Lauren! 
returned this affection ; there was between them, an 
interchange of friendly phrases and looks. Madame 
Raquin, looked on at her three children as she called 
them, with a placid face. 

Th6r£se, to all appearance as tranquil as the others, 
seemed, however, indifferent to these common-place 
joys ; but within her heart she sneered at them, and at 
these two simple-hearted creatures, who believed her to 
be their slave and beast of burthen. Laurent himself, 
for the moment, became to her only the friend of her 
husband — an intruder in whom she felt no interest. He 
was not the same man whom she had received the day 
before in the room above ! 

This atrocious comedy — the contrast between the 
passion of the day, and the feigned indifference of the 
evening — at times bewildered Th6r£se, and she wondered 
which was the dream and which was the reality. 

Sometimes, when Madame Raquin and Camille would 


70 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


both leave the room for a moment, she would start 
from her chair, and crossing the room with a swift, 
rushing step, would press her lips to those of her lover, 
and remain thus until she heard their steps again on 
the stair. When the door opened, she was again in her 
place, with her face as calm as ever. It was like a 
flash of lightning in a clear sky. 

On Thursdays, the evening was a little more anima- 
ted. Laurent who, on these occasions was bored to 
death, nevertheless regarded it as his duty never to 
absent himself from one of these reunions ; he felt as 
a measure of prudence that he ought to be known and 
liked by Camille’s friends. 

He therefore listened with all patience to Grivet’s 
and Michaud’s stories. Michaud’s were always of 
murders and robberies: Grivet’s were all about his 
superiors and his clerks. 

The young man after a while took refuge with 
Olivier and Suzanne, who seemed to him less weari- 
some than the others. 

It was on these Thursday evenings that Therese 
fixed the hour for their next meeting. In the con- 
fusion of departure, she would go up to Laurent and 
say a few words to him in a low voice, and even slip 
her hand in his. 

For eight months this went on, ThdrSse was perfectly 
happy and wished for nothing different ; and Laurent, 
equally content, was only afraid that this most comfort- 
able life would come to an end. 


THEEESE EAQUIN. 


71 


CHAPTER IX. 

EVIL COUNSEL. 

O NE afternoon as Laurent was leaving the office to 
go to Th^rdse who was waiting for him, his Chef 
called him back, telling him that he could permit no 
more of these departures ; adding, that dismissal would 
certainly follow if he went out again. 

Nailed on his chair, he was in despair until night. 
As he had his bread to earn he could not disobey, and 
when he saw Th6r£se that night he had no opportunity 
of explaining until just as he was leaving. Then, as 
Camille went down to shut the shop, he whispered 
hastily : 

“We can see each other no more, my Chef refuses 
to allow me to leave the office.” 

Camille came back and Laurent could say no more, 
but was obliged to go away, leaving Thdrdse quivering 
under this sudden and unexpected blow. 

She passed a sleepless night, but her uncertainty was 
not many degrees relieved until the next Thursday, 
when she was again able to say a few words to her 
lover. Their anxiety was all the more unendurable as 
they could not even explain or discuss the question 
with each other. 

Another appointment was swiftly made, and this too 


72 


THEKESE EAQUIN. 


was broken. From this moment, Th£r£se determined 
at all cost to see Laurent. 

A fortnight elapsed and not once had they met. He 
realized now that he loved her, that she had become 
necessary to him. He could have laughed a few months 
before had any one told him that he could become the 
slave of any woman to such a degree that his peace of 
mind was endangered ; but he now knew that he was 
capable of any folly, any imprudence for her sake. 
This woman, with the swift, undulating movements of a 
snake, had possessed herself of every fibre of his being. 
He would certainly have committed some atrocious 
folly had he not received a letter from Thdrese bidding 
him remain at home the next evening, saying that she 
would be there about eight o’clock. When they left 
the office, he got rid of Camille, saying that he was far 
from well, and must go to his room and lie down. 

Th^rese, after dinner, acted her little part also ; she 
spoke of a debtor who had moved away without paying 
her bill, and declared that she would go for the money. 
This debtor resided at Batignolles. Madame Raquin 
pointed out to her that it was a long distance, but 
made no other objection and she started. 

Th6r£se hurried to the Port-au-Vins , elbowing her 
way through the crowd in her nervous excitement. 
She rushed up the stairs of the house in which Laurent 
resided. On the sixth flight, looking up, she beheld 
Laurent leaning over the railing waiting for her. 

She entered the attic room, the window was open, 
and the wind closed the door behind her. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


73 


At last they could speak to each other in freedom, 
and form their plans for the future. They had so 
much to say that it was with a pang that ThdrSse 
heard the clock strike ten. She would gladly have been 
deaf. 

“I must go,” she said, slowly. 

Laurent took her hands in his. 

44 Au revoir! ” she said, without moving. 

“No! no ! ” he replied, “ that is too vague, you must 
tell me when you will come again ! ” 

She looked at him fixedly. 

“You wish me to be frank, do you? Well! then, 
I think I shall never come again. There is no possible 
excuse that I can invent.” 

44 Then we must say adieu.” 

“No, I will not.” 

She uttered these words with fierce anger. Then 
she added more gently, without knowing just what she 
said : 

“ I must go. I must go.” 

Laurent answered, slowly. He was thinking of 
Camille, but he did not name him. 

“He is too much in our way. Is there nothing we 
can do to get rid of him ? Could he not be sent on a 
long journey ? ” 

44 On a long journey ? ” repeated Ther£se. 44 No — ” 
and she shook her head. 44 Is he the kind of man who 
would go on a journey? There is but one journey 
which he will ever take. But he will outlive us all; 
these people with delicate health always do.” 


74 


THEKESE RAQUIK. 


Laurent was a little behind Thdrejse. He said in a 
low voice, without looking at her : 

“ I dreamed last night that I was your husband. Do 
you understand ? ” 

“Yes, I understand,” answered Thdrese, with a 
shiver. Then, bursting into sobs, she cried : 

“ Oh ! do not say these things, or I shall never have 
strength to leave you ! Give me courage rather ! Tell 
me that we shall still continue to see each other. Do 
you not need me, and shall we not some day find the 
means of living together ? ” 

“ Then come back to-morrow?” answered Laurent. 

“ But I cannot ! ” she cried. “ I have no possible 
excuse.” And she wrung her hands in despair. 

“ I am not afraid for myself,” she continued. “ It is 
for you, I tremble. I do not wish to disturb your life, 
I wish you to be happy.” 

The man’s natural prudence was aroused. 

“You are right,” he said, “we must not behave 
like children. If your husband were to die — ” 

“ If my husband were to die — ” repeated Th^rese, 
slowly. 

“We could marry, and we should have no one and 
nothing to fear. How sweet would our lives be then ! ” 

Th^rese was still standing. Her dark eyes seemed 
to pervade her pale face. Her lips trembled nervously. 

“ People die sometimes,” she said at last, in a hoarse 
voice ; “ but it is dangerous for those who survive ! ” 

Laurent did not reply. 


therese raquin. 75 

44 You see,” she continued, u there is danger in all 
known methods.” 

“You must not misunderstand me,” he said calmly. 
“ I am not a fool. I only wish to be able to love you, 
and to live with and for you. But I was thinking 
that if some accident should take place — they do, 
almost daily — a fall, or a tile from a roof, you know. 
In th%» latter event, no one is to blame, for the wind 
alone is responsible.” 

He spoke in a strange voice. He smiled faintly, and 
added, in a caressing tone : 

“ Go, now, and rest your soul in peace ; we shall be 
happy yet. I will settle every thing ! If it must be 
that we do not meet again for months, do not forget 
me ; remember that I am planning our Future.” 

He took Thdr^se in his arms. She still stood holding 
the door open. 

“ You belong to me,” he continued. “ You swear to 
be mine, whenever I summon you to my side ? ” 

“ Yes,” she cried, “I will come whenever you make 
me the slightest sign.” 

They stood looking for a moment into each other’s 
eyes. Then Th6r£se tore herself away, and without 
turning her head, glided down the stairs. Laurent 
listened to her footsteps until they died away, and were 
lost in the street outside. 

When all was still, he went back to his room, which 
seemed to him still full of the presence of this woman 
who had just left him. He perceived the odor of 


76 


THflRESE RAQUIN. 


violets, that always clung about her garments. He 
threw himself on the bed, and lying on his back with 
clenched hands outstretched, he looked up at the 
square of dark-blue sky, made by the open window in 
the roof. 

All night long that same idea floated through his 
brain. Before Thdr£se came, the idea of Camille’s 
death or murder had never entered his mind. He 
had spoken of it on the impulse of the moment — 
under the irritating pressure of the thought that he 
could never again see this woman, as he had been 
seeing her. 

It was thus that a new side of his nature was 
revealed to him. He had dreamed of assassination 
between two adulterous kisses. 

As he lay there in the silence and darkness of the 
night, he pondered over the possibility of this murder, 
calculated the chances and also enumerated the advan- 
tages which Camille’s death would bring to him. 

All his interests impelled him to crime. He said to 
himself that his father, the peasant at Jeufosse, had 
evidently no intention of dying. He might be obliged 
to remain a clerk for years more, eating his dinner in 
any cremerie without a home or a wife. 

If, however, Camille should chance to die, he would 
marry Th^rese, who of course would inherit all that 
Madame Raquin had to leave. He could then resign 
his position and pass his days as idly as he pleased. 

Then he began to picture the various enjoyments of 


TH&RESE RAQUIIT. 


77 


this idle life, in which he could placidly await his 
father’s death. Suddenty he remembered that Camille 
was the only obstacle, and he raised his hand to strike 
him to the earth. Laurent realized that if Camille 
lived, Camille’s wife would be lost to him. She had 
said to him that she could never come there again. He 
knew though that she would leave her home with him 
at any hour he chose; but how could they live, if she 
did that? 

He risked less in killing her husband. There need 
be no scandal — he merely pushed one man aside, and 
stepped into his place. In his brutal logic, this peas- 
ant-born man decided that this plan was excellent and 
natural. 

He buried his face in the pillow ; beads of sweat 
burst out on his brow, as he asked himself in what way 
he could best kill Camille. Then, when he could not 
breathe, he flung himself over on his back, and with 
wide-open eyes, received full in the face the gusts of 
fresh air from the window, and sought in the stars and 
in the blue sky, murderous counsel and a plan of assas- 
sination. But he obtained no suggestions. As he had 
said to Th^rese, he was neither a fool nor a child ; and 
did not propose to adopt a dagger or poison. He 
intended to execute his design in a more stealthy way, 
without noise and without excitement. Passion no 
longer blinded him ; he recognized the necessity and 
importance of prudence. He was too fond of his ease 
to risk it in any way. Was not his reason for wishing 


78 THERESE RAQUIN. 

to commit a murder, that he might live in peace and 
comfort ? 

By degrees sleep overtook him, and as his eyes 
closed, Laurent decided that he would seize the first 
favorable occasion ; and his thoughts becoming momen- 
tarily vaguer, resolved themselves into the phrase 
repeated over and over again : 

“ Yes, I will kill him ! yes, I will kill him ! ” 

It was with these words on his lips that he fell 
asleep, and in five minutes more, was breathing as 
regularly and softly as a sleeping child. 

Thdrdse entered her house as the clock was striking 
eleven. With her brain on fire, she faced her mother- 
in-law and Camille, who had both began to feel very 
anxious. She answered their questions coldly, saying 
that she had not succeeded in the business on which 
she went, and that she had spent a whole hour waiting 
on the sidewalk for an omnibus. 

After she was in bed, she lay for some time looking 
at Camille’s pale face — paler now than ever — in the 
flickering light of the night taper. She shuddered 
with intense repugnance, and drew herself to the verv 
edge of the couch. 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 


79 


CHAPTER X. 

UNSUSPECTED ASSASSINS. 

LMOST three weeks elapsed. Laurent came to 



-ZjL the shop as usual, almost every evening. He 
complained of not feeling well. He moved as if he 
were weary, and dark shadows were under his eyes, 
while his lips were unnaturally pale. 

But his manner was much the same as usual, partic- 
ularly toward Camille, whom he treated with especial 
friendliness. Madame Raquin petted this child of her 
adoption more than usual, as he seemed to her far from 


well. 


Th^rdse was as calm and grave as ever — perhaps 
more cold and reserved. She never noticed Laurent, 
never addressed him — treated him, in fact, with abso- 
lute indifference. Madame Raquin, whose kind heart 
was quite disturbed by her maimer, said to the young 
man : 

“ You must not mind my niece. Her face is cold, 
but underneath she is goodness itself, and her heart is 
warm and true.” 

The two lovers had never seen each other alone since 
that evening, in la Rue Saint- Victor . In the evening, 
as they sat there with Camille and his mother, what 
storms of passion dashed against these calm stony 


80 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


faces. Th6r£se was in a passion of revolt, while 
Laurent was a prey to brutal temptations and poignant 
indecisions. They did not dare, either of them, to 
question their own hearts, or to look down into the 
depths of their natures, through the dark mist that 
filled their brains. When they could, they grasped 
each other’s hands, roughly and firmly ; little would 
they have cared, had their fingers, like red-hot irons, 
carried away fragments of flesh adhering to them. This 
was all, they could never speak to each other. They 
waited. 

One Thursday night, before they began their usual 
game of dominos, the guests of the Raquin family 
had, as usual, their little chat. One of their favorite 
topics of conversation was to question old Michaud in 
regard to the strange and sinister adventures which he 
had encountered in his life. Grivet and Camille 
heard these stories with the pale, frightened faces of 
little children who listened to Bluebeard or Hop-o-my- 
thumb. They were both terrified and amused. 

That evening, Michaud told them of a horrible 
murder that had just taken place, and gave details that 
caused his hearers to shudder, one and all, adding in 
conclusion : 

“And you have no idea how many crimes are com- 
mitted and go unpunished, and how many assassins 
escape the hands of justice ! ” 

“Do you mean,” asked Grivet in astonishment, 
“ that men walk the streets to-day, who ought to be 
arrested and tried for murder?” 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


81 


Olivier smiled disdainfully. 

“ My dear sir,” he answered in his patronizing voice, 
“ if they are not arrested, it is because their crimes are 
not known, of course.” 

This reasoning did not seem altogether satisfactory 
to Grivet, and Camille came to his assistance. 

“ I agree with Monsieur Grivet,” he said, with an air 
of importance, “ it is difficult for me to believe, with 
a police like ours, that I shall ever be elbowed by a 
murderer.” 

Oliver construed these w'ords into a personal attack. 

“ Of course,” he replied, with some heat, “ of course 
our police is active enough. But we cannot do impos- 
sibilities. There are rascals who have learned crime in 
the devil’s schools. Is not that so, father?” 

“ Indeed it is,” answered old Michaud. “ When I 
was at Vernon — you remember, Madame Raquin — a 
man was murdered. His bod}^ was found in a ditch, 
hacked to pieces. No one ever was able to lay his hand 
on the assassin. He is very likely living. Monsieur 
Grivet may meet him constantly. He may have seen 
him this very day.” 

Grivet turned deadly pale. He did not dare look 
around. He believed a murderer stood behind him. 

“ No, no,” he stammered, hardly knowing what he 
said. “No, I will not believe that. I know another 
story, however. There was a servant imprisoned for 
having stolen from her mistress a silver spoon. Two 
months later a tree was cut down, and the spoon was 
6 


82 


THERESE RAQUI^. 


found in the nest of a magpie. The magpie was the 
thief. The servant was released. You see, the guilty 
are always punished.” 

Grivet chuckled with triumph, and Olivier sneered. 

“ Then,” he said, “ the magpie was imprisoned ? ” 

“ Monsieur Grivet did not say that,” answered 
Camille, who did not like to see his chef made ridicu- 
lous. “ Mother, where are our dominos ? ” 

While Madame Raquin went for the box, the young 
man continued, addressing Michaud : 

“You admit then, that the police are powerless — 
that there are murderers walking in the sunshine ? ” 

“ Unfortunately, there are,” answered Michaud. 

“ That is very immoral ! ” said Grivet solemnly. 
During this conversation, Th^rese and Laurent were 
perfectly silent. They had not even exchanged a smile 
at Grivet’s folly. They listened with pale faces and 
averted eyes. Suddenly, they turned one glance on 
each other. Tiny drops of. sweat burst out at the roots 
of the woman’s hair, and Laurent shivered with the 
cold. 


THlESRESE raquin. 


83 


CHAPTER XL 


A DAY OF HORROR. 


OMETIMES on Sundays, when the weather was 



KJ fine, Camille insisted on Th&rdse going out with 
him for a little walk on the Champs-PlysSes. She 
would greatly have preferred remaining in the damp 
darkness of the shop, for she could not endure to go 
out on her husband’s arm, and stop with him before the 
shop windows, to hear his exclamations and reflections. 

But Camille insisted, for he liked to show his wife to 
any of his colleagues whom he chanced to meet, and if 
he had an opportunity of bowing to one of his chefs 
when he was with Madame, he was greatly pleased. 

He walked on almost without opening his lips, stiff 
and ill at ease in his Sunday clothes, while Ther&se 
suffered acutely at being dragged about by such a 
man. On the days of these walks, Madame Raquin 
accompanied her children to the' end of the Passage, 
where she embraced them as if ‘they were going on a 
long journey. She gave them many injunctions. 

“Above all,” she said, “look out for the carriages, 
there are so many in Paris. You promise me not to go 
into the crowd, don’t you ? ” 

At last she allowed them to depart, and stood look- 
ing after them as long as they were in sight. Then 


84 


T II E It E S E It A Q U I N . 


she slowly returned to the shop. Her limbs were 
growing stiff, and she felt no longer equal to long 
walks. 

Occasionally the young husband and wife left Paris 
and went on short excursions. They went to Saint* 
Ouen, or to Asnieres, and dined at one of the restau- 
rants on the shore of the lake. These were days that 
were planned for at least a month in advance, and were 
welcomed by Th^rese with positive pleasure. Saint- 
Ouen, with its green islands, recalled Vernon, and 
looking at the river, she was thrilled by the same vague 
strange joy that she felt when, as a child, she adored 
the Seine. She seated herself on the shore and dipped 
her hands in the water, and drank in new life and 
strength in the sunshine and fresh air. 

While her dress was crushed and soiled hy the damp 
stones and green turf, Camille carefully spread down 
his handkerchief before he took his seat by her side. 

Laurent was generally with them, and greatly 
gladdened the day by his jests, and exhibitions of 
rude strength. 

One Sunday Camille, Th6r&se and Laurent started 
for Saint-Ouen about' eleven o’clock, not long after 
breakfast. The plan had been arranged some time 
before, and this excursion would probably be the last of 
the season. Autumn was coming on, and the evenings 
were already very chilly. 

On the morning of which we write, the sky was 
serenely blue. It was very warm in the sun, and even 


THERESE R A QUIN. 


85 


in the shade it was soft and balmy. They decided, 
therefore, to start without delay. 

The three friends took a fiacre , with much anxious 
advice from the old lady. They crossed Paris and left 
the fiacre at the Fortifications, and then walked to 
Saint-Ouen. The clock was striking twelve, the road 
was piled high with dust, and with the sun shining 
down upon it, was almost as dazzling as if covered 
with freshly- fallen snow. The air was becoming 
parched. Th&rese, on Camille’s arm, was shaded by 
her parasol, while Camille fanned his face with a 
pocket-handkerchief. 

Just behind them sauntered Laurent, who did not 
seem to feel the sun. He whistled, kicked a stone 
aside, and watched Therese with fierce, eager eyes. 

When they reached Saint-Ouen, they looked about 
for some clump of trees where they might establish 
themselves in the shade. They passed over to one of 
the islands. The dead leaves rustled as they fell, 
and lay in rich brown and red heaps on the ground. 
The trunks of the trees stood up slender and erect, like 
gothic columns; the yellowing leaves massed together, 
were like a copper arch far above the heads of these 
persons, who slowly strayed down the forest glades. 
All around them they heard the ripple and splash of 
the Seine. 

Camille selected a dry place and seated himself, 
carefully lifting his coat-tails. TherSse, with a great 
rustling of stiff skirts, sank among the leaves, half 


86 


THEEESE EA QUIN. 


disappearing among tlie folds of her dress, from which 
emerged one slender foot. 

Laurent lay on his face looking at this foot, while he 
listened to his friend inveighing against the Govern- 
ment, which he declared ought to change all these 
islands in the Seine to English gardens, with regular 
flower-beds, well-rolled paths, and carefully trimmed 
trees. 

They lingered in this place for three or four hours, 
waiting until the sun was less hot that they might 
stroll about a little before dinner. Camille talked 
about his office, and related the most idiotic stories — 
then overcome by the heat, he put his head back and 
fell asleep pulling his hat down over his eyes. Ththese 
for some time had been feigning sleep with her eyes 
shut. Then Laurent cautiously crept a little nearer, 
and kissed the tip of the slender foot, Th^rese still 
lying as motionless as if she were dead. Laurent 
thought her asleep. 

He rose and stood leaning against a tree. Then he 
saw that she was looking up to the sky with wide open 
shining eyes. Her arms were uplifted and her hands 
joined above her head, while her face was deadly pale 
and rigid. Her sombre eyes were an abyss in which 
one saw only darkness. She did not move, nor did she 
look ‘ at Laurent. Her lover gazed at her, almost 
terrified at seeing her so motionless. He longed to 
stoop and close with a kiss the lids of those wide- 
opened eyes. 


T II E R E S E RAQUIK. 


87 


But Camille was within reach of her hand. He, 
poor fellow, was thinner and frailer than ever — and he 
snored as he slept ; under his hat which covered only 
half his face, his mouth, distorted by sleep, was to be 
seen — large, brown freckles made his pallor seem more 
excessive, and his head was so thrown back, that his 
thin wrinkled throat was visible. Take him all in all, 
Camille at this moment was most exasperating and 
ignoble. 

Laurent stood and looked at him, then with one 
sudden motion, lifted his foot. He was about to crush 
this face under his heel. 

Therdse choked back a cry, and turning very pale, 
she covered her eyes and cowered back, as if she 
expected her garments to be stained with blood, and 
Laurent, with uplifted foot, still stood just over Camille. 
Then, slowly he replaced his foot on the ground, and 
moved further off. 

To kill this man in this way were to invite the police 
to detect him. He wished to disembarrass himself of 
Camille only to marry Th<ff*£se ; he intended to live in 
the sunshine after the crime, as the undiscovered mur- 
derer, of whom old Michaud had spoken. He went 
down to the river side, and sat listening to the ripple of 
the river with a stupid air. Then with a swift, sudden 
movement, he returned to the group he had left. He 
had arranged a way of committing this murder which 
would be, for him, absolutely without danger. 

He awoke the sleeper by tickling his nose with a 


88 


T II fi R il S E R A QUIN. 


straw. Camille yawned, laughed, and thought the joke 
an excellent one. He always regarded Laurent as 
immensely amusing. 

He then shook his wife by the shoulder — her eyes 
were still closed. When she felt his hand she started 
up, shook off the dried leaves from her skirts, and the 
three walked down the path, breaking off the twigs from 
the hedges as they passed. They emerged upon the 
wide road, full of people, in their Sunday garb. Women 
and men were talking and singing; the sun alone pre- 
served its wonted tranquillity; it was slowly sinking 
and throwing long lines of rosy light over the white 
highways. A light breeze had sprung up and the air 
was becoming deliciously fresh. Camille did not offer 
his arm to Therese ; he was talking with Laurent, 
laughing at his friend’s dexterous manner of throwing 
stones and leaping the ditches to which they came. 

Thdrese kept at some little distance in the rear, and 
on the other side of the road. She stooped from time 
to time, to gather a sprig of grass. 

“ Hollo ! Are not you hungry ? ” finally shouted 
Camille. 

“Yes,” she answered, slowly, “yes, I am hungry.” 

“ Then, come on ! ” 

Therese was not hungry, she was merely tired and 
very anxious. She did not know what Laurent meant 
to do, and her limbs trembled to that degree that she 
could hardly walk. 

The three now went along the shore looking for a 


th£r£se raquin. 


89 


restaurant, and finally established themselves upon a 
wooden terrace attached to an eating house, the air of 
which was charged with the odors of cooking and of 
wine. The house was noisy; shouts of laughter, frag- 
ments of songs came from every room, accompanied 
with the clatter of dishes; the thin partition walls 
allowed every sound to be heard, and the stairs trembled 
beneath the heavy tread of the waiters. 

Above, however, on the terrace, the wind from the 
river blew freshl}-, and the air was purer. Thdr&se, 
leaning against the balustrade, looked off on the Quai. 
On the right and on the left, stretched a long line of 
wine shops and stalls, and under the arbors, between 
the sparse and yellow leaves, there were gleams of 
white table linen ; a clash of color in the women’s 
skirts, and the black -coats worn by the men — people 
were hurrying to and fro, and above the noise of the 
crowd rose the lamentable notes of an hand-organ, 
while an odor of frying and of dust filled the air. 

Just under Thdrese, some filles from the Quartier 
Latin were holding each other’s hands and dancing like 
little children — their worn faces and weary eyes 
brightened as they danced, while several students, 
smoking their clay pipes, watched them with coarse 
laughs and jests. 

On the hills across the Seine, hung a soft purplish 
haze, in which the trees seemed to float. 

“Well! waiter,” cried Laurent, leaning over the 
staircase, “are we never to have dinner?” 


90 THERESE RAQU1N. 

Then as if with a second thought, he added, turning 
to Camille : 

“ Suppose we take a little row on the water, before 
dinner. Then our chicken will be better roasted, and 
indeed I can’t tell what we shall do with ourselves if 
we don’t go off in one of the boats, for we have nearly 
an hour to wait.” 

u As you choose,” answered Camille, carelessly, “but 
Th^rdse is hungry, I think.” 

“No, I can wait,” said Th^rese, hastily, meeting a 
peculiar look from Laurent. 

They went back to the water ; as they passed the 
counter, they engaged a table and arranged their menu, 
saying they would be back in an hour. They found a 
boatman and bade him bring up his boats. Laurent 
selected from among them, one that was very slender 
and light. 

Camille drew back. 

“No, no,” he said, “that boat can’t be safe.” 

The truth was Camille was mortally afraid of the 
water. At Vernon, his health had been too delicate 
for him to paddle in the Seine with other children ; 
while they swam and dabbled in the water, he pulled a 
double blanket over him and shivered. Laurent became 
an intrepid swimmer and an excellent oarsman, while 
Camille retained all that fear of the water felt by 
women and children. He stamped with one foot on 
the bottom of the boat to test its strength. 

“Come on!” cried Laurent, laughing. “I believe 
you are trembling.” 


TKERESE RAQUIN. 


91 


Camille warily stepped over the gunwale and stag- 
gered to the further end. When he had seated himself, 
he felt more comfortable and made several feeble jokes 
to demonstrate that his courage was undaunted. 

Thdrdse stood grave and motionless on the shore, b} 7, 
the side of her lover, who held the boat with one hand. 
He turned aside a little and said in a low, rapid voice : 

“ I intend to throw him into the river. Do just as I 
tell you, and only as I tell you — and I will answer for 
all.” 

The young woman turned ghastly pale. She stood 
as if glued to the ground, her eyes wide open, and she 
herself as rigid as if carved from stone. A terrible 
struggle was going on within her soul, she exercised 
the most determined self-control, for she feared lest she 
should burst into tears, or fall unconscious. 

“ Ah ! ah ! ” cried Camille. “ Look at Th6r£se, 
Laurent. It is she who is afraid ! She won’t go out 
in the boat. I know she won’t.” 

He was stretched out in the bottom of the boat, and 
laughed and sneered at her wretched cowardice. Thd- 
rSse turned her eyes upon him with the strangest 
expression. The poor jests of this unfortunate man 
were like the sting of a lash across her face, driving 
her to madness. 

Suddenly she jumped into the boat. Laurent took 
up the oars and the boat left the shore, and slowly 
took the direction toward the Islands. Twilight was 
slowly creeping on. Heavy shadows lay under and 


92 T H & K E S E EAQUIN. 

about the trees, while the water was black close to 
the shore. 

In the centre of the river there were long lines of 
silvery brightness. The boat was soon in the centre of 
the Seine. There all the noise from the Quais were 
so softened that they were not unpleasant, and the 
voices came across the water with melancholy sweet- 
ness. The odor of frying and the stifling dust were 
no longer perceived, and the air was almost cold. 

Laurent ceased rowing, and allowed the boat to drift 
with the current. 

Opposite, rose the brown shadows of the Islands. 
The two shores of the river stretched out like two 
broad bands of brown and gray, almost meeting at the 
horizon line. The water and the sky seemed made of 
the same stuff. There is nothing more utterly silent 
and dreary than an autumnal twilight, the air has a 
little chilly shiver, and the dried leaves flutter slowly 
down. The fields and meadows feel that Death is near 
at hand, and one universal plaint of despair rises to 
Heaven, while the shadows of night fall like a pall 
over the scene. No one of the three persons in the 
boat uttered a word — they looked up at the cold, gray 
sky as they drifted on, and at the daylight lingering 
among the topmost branches of the trees. 

They were approaching the Islands. The landscape 
was blurred by the evening mist, and the sky, the river, 
the distant hills and the Islands, were soft, indistinct 
masses. 


TIlfiRESE R A QUIN. 93 

Camille lay with his head over the boat and his 
hands in the water. 

“ Thunder ! how cold it is ! I should not like to 
tumble into the water.” 

Laurent made no reply. His eyes had been riveted 
on the two shores, first on one and then the other. He 
clenched his huge hand as it lay on his knee. Tlierese 
rigid and motionless, waited, holding her breath. 

The boat entered the little inlet that runs up 
between the two Islands, from the other side of which 
came over the land the songs of the boatmen on the 
Seine — but no one was to be seen. 

Then Laurent rose and grasped Camille around the 
body — Camille laughed aloud. 

“No,” he said, “don’t tickle me here! This is no 
place for fool play. Stop that ! I shall certainly go 
over ! ” 

Laurent’s grasps became still closer. Camille 
turned and saw the terrible expression on his friend’s 
face. He did not understand it, but felt a certain 
vague fright. He uttered a faint cry, but a fierce 
hand choked it in his throat. 

With the instinct of a beast turning to defend itself, 
he lifted himself on his knees, and clung to the edge 
of the boat with both hands. He struggled thus for 
some moments. 

“ Thdrese ! Th^rese ! ” he called, in a thick, hoarse 
voice. 

His wife remained motionless, her hands clutching 


94 


THERESE RAQUIN. 

the plank on which she sat— the boat rocking on the 
water. She could not turn her e} r es awa3^ ; they were 
stretched wide open and fixed on the horrible sight 
before her. Tongue and soul seemed alike paralyzed. 

“ Therdse ! Th^rese ! ” called the poor wretch once 
more. 

At this last appeal Thdr^se burst into tears. Her 
nerves gave way, and she fell shuddering and cowering 
into the bottom of the boat. 

Laurent shook Camille free from his clutch on the 
boat, and then as if he had been a child, lifted him in 
the air; the unfortunate wretch with one last, mad 
struggle, bit his murderer in the neck. Laurent, 
restraining a cry of pain, threw Camille into the river. 

He sank with one wild, despairing cry, he rose to 
the surface two or three times, uttering hoarse cries 
for aid. Laurent lost not one second. He raised the 
collar of his coat to hide his wound. Then he snatched 
Th£r£se in his arms and sprang into the water, shout- 
ing for help. 

The boatmen whom he had heard rounding the point 
of the Island, arrived on the scene almost instantly. 
They at once saw that an accident had taken place, 
and took Th6r£se into their boat. While Laurent, 
refusing to be assisted until they had searched for his 
friend, led them to just those points where he knew he 
could not be. He was dragged from the water in a 
state of despair. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


95 


“ It is all my fault ! ” he cried, tearing his hair. 44 1 
ought not to have allowed this poor boy to dance and 
move about in the boat as he was doing. I ought to 
have cautioned him that if we were all three on the 
same side of the boat at one time, that we should 
certainly upset it. As he sank he implored me to save 
his wfife, poor fellow ! ” 

There were among 'the boatmen, as almost always 
happens, two or three young men who wished to be 
supposed to have seen the accident. 

44 Yes, we saw it ! ” they said. 44 Did the poor devil 
think a boat was as solid as a ball room floor? Poor 
little woman ! It will be pretty hard for her when she 
comes to herself! ” 

They took up their oars and rowed to the shore. 
They then carried Laurent and Ther^se to the Restau- 
rant where dinner was waiting for them. 

All Saint-0 uen heard of the accident in another five 
minutes. The boatmen related it as if they had been 
eye witnesses, and a crowd gathered before the door. 

The keeper of the Restaurant and his wife were 
good, kind people, who placed their wardrobes at the 
service of the strangers. When Thdrese recovered 
consciousness she had a nervous attack, burst into wild, 
agonized sobs, and then fainted again. 

Thus did Nature lend her aid to the sinister comedy 
that was being played. When the young woman was 
finally quieted, Laurent intrusted her to the care of 


96 


T II E R E S E R A Q U I N . 


the woman who kept the Restaurant. He wished to go 
back to Paris alone, and at once to carry the frightful 
intelligence to Madame Raquin. The truth was that 
he did not wish Therese to meet her mother-in-law just 
then. He preferred that she should have some little 
time alone, in which to study her part. 

It was the boatmen who ate the dinner ordered by 
Camille. 


T II & R E S E HA QUIN. 


97 


CHAPTER XII. 

A mother’s grief. 

I AURENT, in tlie dark corner of the Diligence 
J which took him to Paris, had ample time in which 
to ripen his plan. He felt almost certain of immunity. 
A certain feverish joy — joj^ that the long thought-of 
crime had been accomplished, filled his soul. 

When he reached the Barriere de Clichy , he took a 
fiacre and drove to Michaud’s in la Rue de. Seine. It 
was then nine o’clock. He found the old man at table 
with Olivier and Suzanne. He went to this house to 
seek protection, in case any suspicion should rest on 
him, and also that he might avoid going himself to 
announce the calamity to Madame Raquin. 

He shrank from doing this, for he knew that the poor 
old lady’s despair would be so great that he doubted 
his ability to support it. 

When Monsieur Michaud saw him come in, so 
strangely clothed in garments much too small for him, 
he looked up in' surprise. Laurent related the accident 
in broken phrases as if exhausted by sorrow and 
fatigue. 

“I came to you,” he said, in conclusion, “as I did 
not know what to do with these two poor women, so 
6 


98 


THERESE RAQULN. 


cruelly afflicted. I dare not go near the poor mother 
alone. I beg of you to come with me.” 

While he spoke, Olivier’s eyes were fixed upon him 
with an expression that startled the murderer. 

Laurent had deliberately come there among these 
men attached to the police, with an audacity that was 
almost unparalleled. But he could not restrain a shiver 
of dread when he felt their gaze. He saw distrust and 
suspicion where there was really nothing but astonish- 
ment and compassion. 

Suzanne grew paler and paler, and with difficulty 
prevented herself from fainting. Olivier, who never 
liked to hear the word Death, scrutinized Laurent’s 
face from habit, no suspicion of the horrible truth of 
course entering his head. 

As to old Michaud, he uttered a series of exclama- 
tions — he fidgeted on his chair, clasped his hands, and 
raised his eyes to Heaven. 

“ What an awful thing ! ” he gasped. “ A man goes 
off on a pleasure trip, and dies in this way! It is 
horrible ! And then this Madame Raquin, his mother, 
what shall we say to her ? Yes, certainly, you did 
right to come here, we will go with you.” 

He rose and wandered about the room looking for 
his hat and cane, all the time questioning Laurent as to 
the details of this catastrophe. 

The four went out of the house together. When 
they reached the Pont-Neuf , , Michaud stopped Laurent. 

“Don’t come any further — wait here,” he said, “your 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


99 


presence would startle her too much. She, poor 
mother, will suspect something, seeing us come in at 
this unusual hour, and will ask us questions. In that 
way, we may be able to manage the avowal. Wait for 
us here.” 

This arrangement was most acceptable to the mur- 
derer, who shuddered at the mere idea of entering that 
dark Passage . He walked up and down the sidewalk, 
and forgot for a minute or two at a time, why he was 
there and what had happened. He looked in at the 
shop windows, and whistled softly between his teeth. 
He remained in the street more than half an hour, and 
his cool-headed audacity slowly returned to him. He 
had not eaten a mouthful since morning, and began to 
feel very hungry ; he entered a pastry cook’s and stuffed 
himself with cakes. 

In the Raquins’ home, meanwhile, a heart-breaking 
scene was taking places All at once, Madame Raquin 
had realized that some accident had happened to her 
son, and immediately demanded the truth with such 
despairing violence, that her old friend was almost 
heart-broken at her despair. 

She threw herself on the floor and writhed as if in 
convulsions. Suzanne knelt at her side, and with a face 
of deadly pallor essayed to soothe her. Olivier and his 
father, distressed and dumb, did not know what to do. 

Before the poor mother’s eyes, rolled the turgid 
waters of the Seine. She saw her son lying far beneath 
them, and in the same moment, beheld him an infant 


100 THEKESE RAQUIK. 

once again lying in his cradle. She had loved him, 
worshipped him for thirty years, all the more for the 
anxiety he had caused her, and now he had died far 
from her side — .drowned like a dog in the dark, cold 
waters of the Seine. 

She remembered the warm blankets with which she 
had so gently covered him. How much care and how 
much tenderness she had lavished on him, and now the 
end had come — he was drowned. 

At this thought, Madame Raquin felt her throat 
contract. She thought, believed and hoped that she 
was dying — strangled by her despair. 

Old Michaud went home as soon as possible, leaving 
Suzanne with the old lady, and hurried with Olivier to 
find Laurent, that they might go to Saint-Ouen at 
once. 

They hardly exchanged a syllable as they went. 
They were each established in a corner of a fiacre , 
their faces wrapped in darkness, except as an occasional 
gas lamp cast a weird light into the carriage. The 
sinister event that had brought them together in this 
way and at this hour, had a most gloomy effect upon 
them. When they reached the Restaurant where they 
had left Th£rese, they found her lying with burning 
hands and face. They were told that the lady had a 
high fever. 

The truth was, that Thdr^se, feeling herself weak 
and cowardly, fearing that she might avow the truth in 
a moment of delirium, determined that it was much 
wiser to feign illness. 


THEKESE RAQUIN. 


101 


She did not speak ; her eyes were closed nearly all 
the time. She pulled the bedclothes well up, half 
burying* her face in the pillow, and listened with eager 
ears to all that was said around her. 

But in the centre of the red light which pierced her 
eyelids, she still saw Laurent and Camille struggling 
on the edge of the boat, or the appalling vision of her 
husband coming, with dripping garments, to denounce 
her. 

Old Michaud tried to console her, but she moved 
impatiently, and began to sob, convulsively. 

“ You had best leave her to herself, sir,” said the 
keeper of the Restaurant. “ She is very nervous still, 
and starts at the slightest noise. You see she must 
have some rest.” 

In the hall below there was a police agent, making 
inquiries about the accident. Michaud and his son, 
therefore, followed by Laurent, went down to find this 
man, to whom Olivier made his superior position 
at once known. After this, of course, there was little 
more to be done. The boatmen were still there, ready 
to tell the story in the smallest details, describing the 
manner in which the three persons fell into the river. 

If Olivier and his father had had the slightest sus- 
picion, this suspicion would have vanished before such 
testimony, given as they supposed, by ocular witnesses. 
But not for a moment had they doubted Laurent’s 
veracity. They knew him to be the best friend of the 
dead man, and presented him as such to the agent of 


102 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


police, who described him in his report as the young 
man who had thrown himself in the water to save 
Camille Raquin. 

The next day the newspapers related the accident 
with a multiplicity of details. The unhappy mother, 
the inconsolable wife, the noble and courageous friend 
- — all figured largely in these details, and in the 
police reports. 

When all this was over and he had given his final 
testimon} r , Laurent felt a sense of profound security. 
From the moment when the teeth of his victim had 
fastened on his throat, he had moved almost mechani- 
cally, following the routine of a plan, long before 
arranged. The instinct of self-preservation alone 
dictated his words, looks and gestures. 

But now, when he was certain of immunity, the blood 
again began to run in his veins with its usual calmness. 
The police had visited the scene of his crime, and the 
police had seen nothing — they were completely de- 
ceived, and he was safe. Warmth returned to his 
body, and activity to his limbs and to his mind. 

He continued to act his r61e of despair with wonder- 
ful aplomb, while all the time within his soul, he was 
thinking of the woman who lay in the room above. 

“We can not leave her here,” he said to Michaud. 
“She is very possibly threatened with some severe 
illness. We ought to take her to Paris at once. 
Come, we must induce her to go with us.” 

He went up stairs, and in the presence of these other 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


103 


men, implored Th£rdse to rise and go to her mother-in- 
law’s with them. 

When the young woman heard the sound of his 
voice, she started and fixed her large affrighted eyes 
on his face. She did not reply, but slowly and with 
painful effort, rose to obey. The men went down 
stairs, and when she was ready, the woman of the 
establishment assisted her down the stairs and into a 
fiacre. 

The brief journey was a very silent one. Laurent 
with unparalleled audacity and impudence, slipped his 
hand under the shawl of Th^rese and took her fingers 
in his. He could not see her face, for her head was 
bowed on her breast. He held her hand until they 
reached la Rue Mazarin. He felt this hand tremble, 
but she did not withdraw it. It seemed to both Lau- 
rent and Th6r&se, that the blood of the one rippled 
into the veins of the other. In the silence and dark- 
ness, this fierce grasp of these two hands was as if they 
were employing all their strength to keep Camille’s 
head under water. 

When the fiacre stopped, Michaud and his son were 
the first to alight. Laurent took that opportunity to 
lean forward and say softly: 

“ Be strong, Thdr£se. We have waited long for this. 
Be careful what you do. Remember ! ” 

The young woman had not spoken once since her 
husband’s death. Her pale, suffering lips now parted: 

“I will remember,” she said and with a shudder, in 
a faint, low voice. 


104 


T II E R E S E KAQUIN, 


Olivier held out his hand to assist her. Laurent 
then went to the shop. Madame Raquin had been put 
to bed ; she was delirious, and threatened with a brain- 
fever. Thdrese dragged herself to her bed, and Suzanne 
assisted her to undress. 

Seeing that all things were going smoothly, Laurent 
finally went off to his lair, in la Rue Saint-Victor. 

It was after midnight. A fresh wind was blowing 
through the silent streets. The young man heard not 
one sound, except the echoes of his own foot-fall on the 
pavement, and he moved as cheerfully as if he had not 
a care in the world. 

He had gotten rid of this troublesome friend. Not 
only was Camille safely put out of the way, but abso- 
lutely without danger to himself. He was now about 
to live in peace, and to marry Thdrese. He felt a great 
weight taken from his shoulders, and he breathed with 
ease once more, now that all hesitation and fear were 
conquered. 

He was frightfully tired in body and mind, and when 
he entered his room, he threw himself on his bed and 
slept profoundly. During his sleep, light, nervous 
shivers contracted the muscles of his face. 


T n E It £l s E EAQUIK. 


105 


CHAPTER XIII, 


THE MORGUE 



HIE next clay Laurent awoke refreshed and thor* 


JL oughly master of himself. The cold air coming 
in at the open window, stung his torpid blood to life. 
He with difficult} 7 recalled the scenes of the past night. 
But for the agony of the wound in his throat, he might 
have believed that he had retired as usual at ten 
o’clock, after a calm, common-place evening. 

This wound, however, was like a red-hot iron tearing 
his flesh, and when he stopped to think of it, he real- 
ized that the pain was intense. It seemed to him that 
a hundred needles were quivering in his flesh. 

He loosened his shirt-collar and examined the wound 
in a wretched little mirror he had hung on the 
wall. The wound was large and red — as large as a 
two-cent piece. The skin had been torn away, and the 
flesh was red and inflamed. Blood had flowed down 
on his shoulder in slender streams. The wound was 
on the right side of his neck, under the ear. Laurent, 
with the mirror in his hand, was trying his best to see 
himself reflected in it. 

He washed the wound in cold water, saying to 
himself that it would be healed in a few days. 
Then he dressed and went to his office as usual, where 


106 


THEKESE HAQUIN. 


he related the story with some agitation. When his 
colleagues heard his tale and read the notices in the 
journals, they regarded him as a veritable hero. 

For a whole week, the employes of the bureau talked 
of this subject with ardent pride that one among them 
.had been drowned. Grivet expressed his opinion on 
the folly of venturing in a boat on the Seine, when it 
was so easy to look down on the water from the bridges. 

There was one thing that disturbed Laurent. The 
decease of Camille had not been legally proved. The 
husband of Th^rdse was dead, but his body must be 
found before certain legal steps could be taken. 

The day after the accident, search had been made for 
the body of Camille, but without success ; it was sup- 
posed that it had been drawn by an eddy into some 
hole, where it could not be recovered, although many 
persons were searching for it. 

Laurent made it his duty to stop every day at the 
Morgue on his way to the office. Notwithstanding the 
horror he felt each time he crossed the threshold of 
this building, he went there regularly every day for a 
week, and moved in succession to each one of the cold 
bodies extended on the stones. 

The very air of the place made him ill, when he 
entered — the dampness of the air seemed to weigh him 
down. He went directly to the glass door that com- 
manded a view of all the bodies, and with his face 
pressed against the glass, looked at each in turn. The 
bodies were nude, while the clothes hung against the 


THflRESE RAQUIK. 


107 


wall — there was a never - ceasing sound of running 
water. He felt no interest in any of the bodies save 
those of persons who had been drowned ; at these he 
looked intently, with the hope of recognizing Camille. 
Sometimes he hesitated for a moment, thinking he had 
found him, and one morning he was sure. 

Each time he thought he recognized Camille, Laurent 
felt his heart burn hotly within him. His visits to 
the Morgue gave him the most horrible dreams at 
night, and caused him to tremble at his own shadow; 
but he shook off these fears, called himself a child, and 
determined to be strong ; but, in spite of himself, his 
flesh revolted, disgust and horror filled his soul. 

The Morgue is a spectacle within the reach of all 
purses, poor and rich patronize it. The door is open, 
any one can go in who chooses, and there are some per- 
sons with tastes so morbid that they regard that day 
as incomplete, when they have not been to the Morgue, 
and when the stone slabs are vacant, they go away 
muttering their dissatisfaction. When the slabs are 
filled, the visitors crowd up — give utterance to their 
emotions of horror, surprise and admiration, much as if 
at a theatre, and finally retire, saying that the Morgue 
has been a success that day. 

Laurent soon knew the public of this place — there 
were workmen who came in with their tools under their 
arms — these men thought Death very amusing. Among 
them were many who had their little jokes, uttered, 
to be sure, in unsteady voices. Then came elderly men 


108 


T H fi E E S E It A Q U I ST . 


who lounged in because they had nothing else to do. 
There were also many women to be seen there ; young 
sewing women with their fresh percale robes, and white 
collars and cuffs, who opened their eyes with earnest 
attention, as if in a milliner’s shop, and there were still 
other women — women of the people, who looked sad 
and impressed. Among these too, were well-dressed 
ladies — their silken skirts dragging on the ground. 

One day, Laurent saw one of this latter class, 
standing motionless near the glass — a fine linen cambric 
handkerchief pressed to her nostrils. She wore a 
dress of soft, gray silk, with a large mantle of black 
lace — her face was covered with a, vail and her gloved 
hands were small and slender. In her belt and at her 
breast, were clusters of fresh violets. Upon a stone 
lay the body of a tall, well-made man, who had been 
killed by falling from a scaffolding — he looked as if he 
were carved in marble. The lady seemed to regard 
him as such, for she could hardly tear herself away. 

At the end of a week, Laurent felt that he could 
bear no more. He dreamed every night of the bodies 
he had seen in the morning. He determined that he 
would go but once more. The next day, when he 
entered the Morgue, he received a violent shock — 
opposite him lay Camille, with his eyes half open. 

The murderer slowly approached, unable to turn his 
eyes from his victim. He did not suffer — he was con- 
scious only of a sense of great cold. He stood immov- 
able for five minutes, lost in contemplation, engraving 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


109 


on his memory all these horrible lines, and all the 
colors of this appalling picture. 

Camille was indeed appalling; he had been for a 
fortnight in the water, and his countenance, therefore, 
was strangely altered, but its predominant expression 
was grief and terror. 

When Laurent had satisfied the curiosity that held 
him motionless, he turned and departed; for an hour 
he walked on the Quai. He then went to find Michaud 
and told him that the body of Camille lay at the 
Morgue. 

All necessary legal formalities were quickly ar- 
ranged; the body was claimed and interred, and Lau- 
rent, tranquil and at ease, began to forget his crime, 
and the painful scenes that had followed it. 


110 


THERESE RAQTJIN. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


AUNT AND NIECE 


HE shop in the Passage du Pont-Neuf was closed 



I for three days. When it was again opened, it 
seemed darker and damper than before. The windows, 
with their scanty stock in trade, looked yellow and 
dreary. Behind the fluted caps, appeared the face of 
Thdr&se paler than ever. 

All the gossips of the neighborhood peered in at the 
window to look at the young widow, and the woman 
with the imitation jewelry opposite, pointed her out to 
her friends with an air of pride and proprietorship, as 
an interesting curiosity. 

For three days, Madame Raquin and Thdrdse 
remained in their separate rooms without seeing each 
other. The poor old lady, half sitting up in bed, sup- 
ported by pillows, looked with fixed, almost idiotic 
eyes, straight before her. The death of her son had 
been a frightful blow to her. She lay for hours, inert 
and motionless, wrapped in her despair; then, all at 
once, a nervous attack would come on followed by 
delirium. 

Ther&se, in the next room, seemed to sleep ; she lay 
with her face toward the wall, and the coverlid drawn 
over her head. She lay rigid and motionless, without 


THE RE SE RAQUIN. 


Ill 


a sob or a long-drawn breath once lifting the sheets 
that covered her. 

Suzanne, who took care of these two women, went 
softly from one to the other, leaning with waxen face, 
first over one couch and then the other, but Therdse 
never addressed her, and Suzanne could not arouse her 
nor console Madame Raquin, who, at the first condo- 
lence, only burst into fresh floods of tears. 

The third day, Th^r&se suddenly threw back the bed- 
clothes and sat up in her bed with a certain feverish 
haste. She knotted up her hair, that had fallen loosely 
about her shoulders, and then pressing her head tight 
between her two hands, seemed to be thinking intently. 
She then dropped her feet to the floor. She was flushed 
with fever, and tottered as she walked. She had grown 
ten years older. 

Suzanne coming in at that moment, seemed surprised 
at seeing her up, and begged her to return to bed and 
try and sleep a little longer. Ther&se, however, did 
not listen, but with trembling hands began to make 
her toilette. When dressed, she stood and looked at 
herself in a mirror, rubbed her eyes, and then passed 
both hands over her face as if to efface something. 
Then, without one word, she crossed the dining-room, 
and entered the presence of Madame Raquin. 

The old lady was at that moment calm and quiet. 
When Thdr&se entered, she slowly turned and gazed 
at the young widow, who stood before her dumb and 
oppressed. The two women contemplated each other 


112 


T n E R E S E EAQUIN. 


for some minutes, the niece with increasing anxiety, 
and the aunt struggling dimly with her memory. At 
last, as the truth rushed before her, Madame Raqiiin 
extended her arms, and closely folding Th£r&se to her 
breast, she cried: 

“ My poor child ! My poor Camille ! ” 

She wept, and her tears dried on the burning hands 
of the widow who concealed her own dry eyes, 
Ther&se did not speak. Since the murder she had 
dreaded this first interview, and had remained in bed to 
avoid it as long as possible, that she might reflect 
uninterruptedly on the terrible role she was to play. 
When she saw that Madame Raquin was calmer, she 
moved around the room, putting it in order, and talking- 
to her aunt, advising her to rise and go down to the 
shop. 

The poor old lady had fallen almost into a state of 
second childhood, but the sudden appearance of her 
niece had done her great good and brought back both 
her memory and the consciousness of what was going on 
about her. She thanked Suzanne for all her kindness, 
her voice was faint and weak, but her mind was clear. 
Tears rose to her eyes constantly, and as she watched 
Thcrese moving about, she would call her to her side, 
and embracing her with sobs, would tell her that she 
now had no one else in the world. 

That evening she tried to rise and to eat. TherSse 
then, for the first time, realized the terrible shock her 
aunt had received. The limbs of the poor old lady 


could no longer support her. She needed a cane and 
the arm of Thdrdse to cross the room. 

Early the next morning, she insisted that the shop 
should be opened, and said she should go mad if she 
remained in her room any longer. She descended the 
stairs with infinite difficulty, and seated herself behind 
the counter where from this day forth she was nailed — 
a picture of patient grief. 

Therdse, by her side, dreamed and waited. The shop 
resumed its wonted air of dull activity. 

7 


114 


THER^SE RAQU1N. 


CHAPTER XV. 


CONDOLENCES 


AURENT was often there, and came in the evening 



two or three times each week. He would remain 


in the shop about a half hour talking to Madame 
Raquin 'without looking Th^rSse in the face. The old 
lady regarded him as the preserver of her niece, and as 
having done all in his power to rescue her son. She 
always received him with kindness and tenderness. 

One Thursday evening, Laurent was there when old 
Michaud and Grivet entered. The clock was striking 
eight, and they each had come to the conclusion, with- 
out consulting the other, that it was now time for them 
to resume their old habits which were so dear to them. 
They arrived almost at the same moment, as if moved 
by the same spring, followed by Olivier and Suzanne. 

They ascended to the dining-room. Madame Raquin 
who had expected no one, hastened to light the lamp 
and make the tea. When all were seated around the 
table, on which the box of dominos had been turned 
out, the poor mother looked round upon them all, and 
burst into tears. 

There was one chair vacant — that of her son. This 
despair threw cold water on the little circle — every face 
wore an expression of annoyance rather than of grief, 
for they had never loved Camille. 


TH^RESE RAQUIR. 


115 


“ Come now, dear lady,” cried old Michaud, with 
some impatience in his tone, “ you must not give way 
like that, you will make yourself ill.” 

“We are all mortal,” interposed Grivet. 

“Your tears will not bring back your son,” said 
Olivier sententiously. 

“Please try and control yourself,” murmured Su- 
zanne, “you make us all so unhappy.” 

But Madame Raquin continued to sob. 

“ Come now, dear lady,” repeated Michaud, “ keep 
up your courage. We came here to amuse you, and 
you must not make us miserable. Try and forget. 
Take a hand in this game, won’t you ? ” 

The old lady restrained her tears with almost super- 
human effort. Perhaps she realized the intense egotism 
of her guests. She dried her eyes and took up the 
dominos in her trembling hands, but she could not see 
them through the tears that welled up under her lashes. 

They began to play. 

Laurent and Therese had looked on at this brief scene 
with grave, impassive faces. The young man was 
enchanted that these Thursday reunions were again in 
order, for they were essential to his plans. Now 
surrounded by all these people he ventured to look 
Therese full in the face. 

She was dressed in black, paler and graver than ever. 
It seemed to him that her beauty had acquired a new 
character. He was rejoiced to see her turn her eyes on 
him with calm self-possession, for he saw in her face 
that she belonged to him body and soul. 


116 


THERESE E A Q U I N . 


CHAPTER XYI. 

INDECISION. 

F IFTEEN months later, the bitterness of the first 
loss had been softened to the poor mother, but 
each day she felt more discouraged and weary of life. 

Laurent and Ther^se saw the days drift on, and the 
task of analyzing their emotions is a most delicate 
and difficult one. 

Laurent now went regularly every evening to the 
shop, just as he had done when Camille was living, but 
he never dined there now. He would come in late, 
about palf-past nine, and remain until he had closed 
the shop. He seemed to feel that it was his duty to 
serve these two lonely women. If it so happened that 
some unforeseen event prevented his appearing as 
usual he apologized with all the humility of a menial. 

On Thursday evening he assisted Madame Raquin to 
light her fire and do the honors of the house. His 
watchful aid charmed the old lady. Th^r&se looked 
on quietly, the peculiar pallor of her countenance 
had vanished; she seemed in better health. She 
smiled often and was less silent than formerly. 

About her mouth, however, there was a certain 
nervous contraction, and also two deep lines, imparting 
to her face a look of pain that amounted almost to 
terror. 


THEKESE RAQUIN. 


117 


The two lovers were no longer eager to see each 
other alone. They had never exchanged a kiss since 
the death of Camille. In killing him they had slain 
the eagerness of their passion. 

They might have met, however, as often as they 
pleased. Madame Raquin, childish and almost help- 
less, was no obstacle. The house belonged virtually to 
Th^rese. She could come in or go out precisely as she 
pleased ; but no temptation offered itself. She was 
perfectly willing to remain behind the counter all day 
long, and she and Laurent sat in the shop, conversing 
calmly, looking in each other’s faces without a quick- 
ened pulse or heightened color, and almost seemed to 
have forgotten their previous madness. They even 
avoided meeting each other alone, for they felt that in 
that case they would meet too coldly. When their 
hands accidentally touched, a little shiver ran through 
both, accompanied by a sense of uneasiness that almost 
amounted to disgust. 

They explained their conduct to themselves, however, 
in a way that was entirely satisfactory. They said 
their coldness arose from prudence, and their shivers 
and repugnance were caused by the memory of that 
terrible night. 

Sometimes they each tried to hope — to revive those 
dreams which had cost them so much — and were 
astonished to find their imaginations literally empty. 
They consoled themselves, however, with the convic- 
tion that when once married, and saw their aim 


118 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


achieved, their passion would revive and they would 
realize all their delicious dreams. This hope soothed 
them and prevented them from realizing the depth of 
the abyss that now yawned between them. They 
persuaded themselves that they still loved each other, 
as in the past, and that they only waited for the priest 
to sanction their union, for happiness to be theirs. 

Never had Thdrese been calmer or in better spirits. 
Her nerves were no longer on the stretch, and she was 
thankful as she lay in her bed, that she no longer heard 
or saw Camille. She tried to forget her brief married 
life, and to believe that she was again a girl. Her 
large, cool room, with its high ceiling and dark corners, 
pleased her, and she even went so far as to love the black 
wall that rose before her window. She liked to look 
at it and note the slow growth of the lichens in the 
crevices, and then raise her eyes to the narrow glimpses 
of the starry sky above. She rarely thought of Laurent 
except when she awoke with a start in the night, and 
then she said, as she shivered and shook, that when she 
was married again, she should not be alone at night, 
and therefore should not be frightened. She regarded 
her lover somewhat in the light of a watch-dog, who 
would protect her ; otherwise she never thought of his 
presence. 

During the day, when she was in the shop, she could 
occupy her thoughts with other things, and was no 
longer wrapped in sullen plans of revolt and vengeance. 

She did not like to think — she wished to act. From 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


119 


morning until night, she watched the people who 
passed the door. Their bustle and hurry amused her. 
She became curious about her neighbors and fond of 
gossip. She became a woman, in fact — for up to this 
time, she had thought and felt as a man. 

She began to notice, from her seat behind the 
counter, a young man — a student — who lived in 
the vicinity, and who passed the shop constantly. 
This young fellow had a certain beauty of face, with 
the long hair of a poet, and the moustache of a calvary 
officer. Therese thought him very distingue, and 
cherished for at least a week a school-girl fancy for 
him. She read many romances in these days, and 
comparing the young man to Laurent, she found the 
latter too stout and too heavy. Her reading opened 
to her a new world. She had hitherto loved only with 
her blood and her nerves; she now loved with her 
head. 

Finally the student disappeared ; he had probably 
moved to some other quarters, and Therese forgot him. 

She subscribed to 'a circulating library, and fell in 
love with all the heroes of the books she read. This 
sudden passion for reading had a strange effect upon her 
character, and she acquired a nervous sensibility which 
caused her to laugh or weep almost without knowing 
why. Her former equilibrium was totally upset. She 
had a way of relapsing into long reveries, from which 
some thought of Camille aroused her with a start of 
terror and a longing for Laurent’s presence, and the 
safety which he would bring. 


120 


T n & Pv E S E EAQUIN. 


Sometimes she wished to marry her lover at once, 
and then again she was tempted to fly and never see 
him more. The novels which spoke to her of woman’s 
chastity and man’s honor, put a strong obstacle 
between her instincts and her wishes. She was still 
the wretch who had violated her duties as a wife, and 
had looked on at the murder of her husband ; but she 
had at least a dim perception of goodness and sweet- 
ness, and understood the docility of Olivier’s wife. 
She realized at last that she could not kill her husband 
and expect to be happy. 

From the moment that this conclusion foreed itself 
upon her, she lived in a state of cruel indecision. 

Laurent, on his side, had passed through different 
phases of fever and repose. At first he enjoyed 
immense tranquillity, and felt as if relieved from an 
enormous weight. He questioned himself occasionally 
in astonishment, and asked if he had not had a bad 
dream — if he had really thrown Camille into the 
water, and if he had really seen his body lying at the 
Morgue. 

The memory of his crime was an ever-recurring sur- 
prise to him, for he never would have believed himself 
capable of committing a murder — cold beads of sweat 
burst out on his brow when he thought his crime 
might yet be discovered. He felt the knife of the 
guillotine on his neck at such moments. He had acted 
with the headstrong blindness of a brute. Now he 
turned, and seeing the abyss he had leaped, was faint 
and sick. 


THEKESE EAQUIK. 


121 


“ I was mad,” he thought, “this woman had intoxi- 
cated me with her caresses — I risked the guillotine, 
and for what? I know very well, if I were to live 
over the past year, that I should do very differently.” 

Laurent now became very cautious and prudent in 
every act and word. He grew very stout, and moved 
slowly and ponderously. No one in the world, looking 
at his enormous body, apparently without nerves or 
bones, would ever have dreamed of accusing him of 
violence and cruelty. 

He resumed all his former habits, and for several 
months was a model employe, performing each one of 
his duties with exemplary fidelity. He dined every 
night at a Cremerie in la Rue Saint- Victdr, cutting 
his bread into the thinnest possible slices, and prolong- 
ing his repast as much as possible. Then he leaned 
back against the wall and smoked his pipe. Any one 
would have taken him for a good natured father of a 
family. 

He thought only of his business during the day, and 
at night his sleep was heavy and dreamless. Sleeping 
well, eating well, warmed and clothed, he was happy. 

He thought of Th^rese as a man thinks of a woman 
who is to be his wife at some future time. He waited 
for the hour of his marriage with patience, and forget- 
ting the Avife he was to have, thought only of the new 
position which would be his. He would then leave his 
office, and again amuse himself with painting. 

These thoughts took him every evening to the shop, 


122 


TH^KESE KAQUIN. 


in spite of the vague uneasiness that assailed him 
whenever he entered it. 

One Sunday, not knowing just what to do, he went 
to call on the old college friend, the painter with whom 
he had lived so long. 

The artist was working on a picture which he 
intended to send to the salon, and which represented 
a nude Bacchante lying on some rich stuff. At the 
back of the atelier the model was posed. In this 
model he recognized an old aquaintance, with whom his 
relations were re-established within twenty-four hours. 
He never asked himself if this were not infidelity to 
Th^rese, or how she would like it if she were to 
know it. He was happier, that was all. 

The term of mourning for Camille was now drawing 
to an end, and one day the young widow appeared in a 
light dress, and Laurent thought he had never seen her 
so lovely. He never felt at ease with her now, how- 
ever, for she was full of strange caprices, shedding 
tears or laughing — without rhyme or reason. He 
divined her indecision and her struggles, and began 
himself to hesitate — being in great fear lest he should 
sacrifice his own daily peace by marrying a woman 
who had already affected his nerves to such a degree, 
that he had perilled his neck for her sake. 

He did not reason this out ; he felt by instinct that 
to marry Thdrdse would make of his life a daily 
penance. 

It was now fifteen months since Camille’s death, and 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


123 


quite time for their marriage. For one moment Lau- 
rent thought seriously of giving up the whole affair 
and turning a cold shoulder on Th^rdse. Then he said 
to himself, that if he did this, he should have commit- 
ted a murder for nothing; recalling the crime and the 
terror of that day, he felt that if he did not now marry 
this woman he had uselessly perilled his neck. To rob 
a man of his wife and then drown him, wait fifteen 
months to marry his widow and then decide to throw 
her over for the sake of a little model, seemed to 
him simply ridiculous. Besides, was he not allied to 
Thdrdse by a tie of blood and of horror — she was liis 
and he hers ! 

He was afraid of his accomplice. How could he be 
sure that she, if he did not marry her, would not 
expose him through jealousy and crime. These ideas 
began to trouble him. 

About this time, his model deserted him. She had 
probably found more comfortable quarters. 

Laurent w T as not profoundly afflicted, although he 
certainly missed her. He went, that evening, to the 
shop, more than usually desirous of seeing Th6r£se. 
She was strangely thrilled by the passion in his eyes. 

When he assisted her to close the shop, he caught 
her hand and said something, in a low voice : 

She drew back. 

“ No, no,” she said, hastily. “ If you wish me to be 
your wife, I am ready.” 


124 


THEKESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


IN THE SILENT WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 
AURENT left the shop greatly disturbed. These 



JL J words uttered by Th6r&se had brought back much 
of the old feeling. He took the street by the Quais, 
and walked with his hat in his hand in order to cool 
his hot and throbbing head. 

When he reached la Rue Saint - Victor, and was about 
to enter his Hotel, he was suddenly seized with an 
inexplicable feeling of terror. A fear like that of a 
child who believes a man to be hidden under his bed, 
made him afraid to enter his attic room. Never before 
in his life had he felt this. He made no attempt to 
reason away this sensation, but he turned back and 
entered a wine shop, where he remained until midnight, 
sitting alone at a table, drinking great glasses of wine. 
He thought of Th6r£se with a feeling of sullen irrita- 
tion. The wine shop was closed, and he was obliged 
to leave — he went back to ask for a match. The office 
of his Hotel was up one flight of stairs, and he had a 
long corridor to traverse, which was in total darkness. 
Generally he never thought of the darkness, but this 
night, he felt as if assassins were hidden at every 
angle, who would leap out at his throat as he passed. 

He lighted a match which went out, he tried another 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


125 


and another, rubbing them on the damp wall. He suc- 
ceeded in lighting one at last, and watched the ghastly- 
blue of the sulphur as it slowly ignited the wood ; it 
seemed to him that monstrous forms were cowering in 
the corners. 

At last the wood caught, and, by the light, he hurried 
up the steps, believing himself safe, only when he 
received his candle in the office. 

Holding his candle high above his head, he ascended 
the stairs to his room — trembling at every shadow, and 
imagining the creak of the stairs under his feet to be 
made by his pursuers. 

When he reached the door, he threw it open and 
hastily entered, closing it again as rapidly as possible. 
His first care was to look under his bed and in his 
wardrobe. He closed the window on the roof bethink- 
ing himself for the first time that some one could easily 
enter that way. 

When he had done this he was calm, and as he 
undressed, he smiled at himself for being such a 
poltroon; but he was uneasy that he was unable to 
explain to his own satisfaction, this sudden access of 
terror. He went to bed and closed his eyes, but his 
mind was in a turmoil, and over and over again, he 
found himself recapitulating the advantages of a 
speedy marriage. He tossed from one side of the bed 
to the other, and said, aloud : 

“ This will never do — I have to get up early, and be 
at my office at eight o’clock.” 


126 


TH^RESE II A Q U I X . 


It was of no use, he could not sleep, his brains con- 
tinued to work, showing him all the reasons for and 
against marrying Th6rSse. 

Finally, he asked himself why he did not go to 
Therdse at once ; he could not sleep — and then half 
awake, he began in his fancy to hurry through the 
streets, saying to himself, “I will turn this corner, for 
it cuts off so much.” He followed in his imagination, 
the narrow lane, saying to himself that he had suc- 
ceeded in turning into it without being seen by the 
woman who kept the stall where imitation jewelry was 
sold. He again perceived the damp, foul odors of the 
lane — he touched the cold wall, feeling for the door 
which suddenly opened, and Therdse stood before him. 
He started from his bed, but when his feet touched the 
cold floor, the same deadly horror seized him as before. 
He gasped for breath and looked about his room fear- 
fully — but saw only the white moonlight streaming in. 
He returned to his bed, and pulling the clothes over 
his head, shivered and cowered as before the knife of 
an assassin. 

A sharp pain in his neck caused him to put his hand 
to it involuntarily. He felt the scar made by Camille’s 
teeth, which he had almost forgotten. He was startled, 
and wondered if it were a cancer eating his flesh. He 
rubbed it gently, hoping to ease the pain, but it seemed 
only to increase it. In order to keep his hands from 
touching this scar, he placed them both between his 
knees, and lay in this restrained position, his teeth 
chattering with fear. 


TllfRESE RAQUIK. 


127 


He could now think of nothing but Camille. Up to 
this time, Laurent had not been much troubled by the 
recollection of his victim, but thinking of Therdse, 
seemed to have called up the spectre of her husband. 
The murderer dared not open his eyes, lest he should 
see Camille in the room. Once he fancied that his bed 
was strangely jarred — might it not be that the ghost 
was hidden under it? With his hair rising on his head, 
he clung to his mattress. Suddenly, he perceived that 
the bed did not move, and all at once, his self-possession 
returned. He sat up and called himself a fool, as he 
calmly lighted his candle and drank a large glass of 
water. 

“ The fact is,” he said to himself, “ I drank too much 
wine to-night. If I don’t get some sleep, I shall be in 
a nice state to-morrow to do my work. I ought to close 
my eyes as soon as my head touches the pillow. If I 
once get to thinking it is all up with me.” 

He blew out his candle again, turned his pillow over 
and gave it a thump, and lay down again, determined 
to sleep. Fatigue now began to relax the tension of 
his nerves. 

He did not sleep in his usual fashion — all the 
time feeling that his body was slumbering, while 
his mind was as active as ever. Again, he went 
through the streets dividing him from Therese ; again, 
he entered the alley and felt his way up the stairs ; 
again, did the door open, but this time it was not 
Th£r£se, who stood before him — it was Camille — 


128 


THERESE R A QUIN 


Camille, as he had seen him at the Morgue, horrible to 
look upon. 

Laurent uttered a wild cry and started up. He was 
in a cold sweat. He pulled the coverings once more 
over his head, and again did he fall into the same state 
in which he seemed to himself to be hurrying through 
the streets to find Therdse, whose door was opened by 
the spectre of Camille. 

The murderer once more started up in his bed. 
What should he do to drive away this persistent 
dream ? As long as he was awake, he could keep this 
phantom at bay ; but as soon as he was no longer 
master of himself, he was overpowered. 

This lasted all night. Ten times he had this' same 
dream. Each time he reached Ther£se he encoun- 
tered Camille, and from each of these dreams he awoke 
with a start — the last so violent that he determined to 
rise, as day was breaking, and a cold, gray light coming 
in at the window in the roof. 

Laurent dressed slowly with a sense of sullen irri- 
tation. He was exasperated at not having slept, and 
indignant at his own fears. He shuddered, however, 
at the thought that it would ever be his fate to pass 
such another night. 

He buried his head in the basin and combed his hair, 
which refreshed him in some degree, though he felt 
sadly weary. 

“I am not a coward,” he said to himself, “ and how 
could I have been such a fool as to seriously believe 


therese raquin. 


129 


that poor devil Camille was under my bed? I 
wonder if this fear is to haunt me every night? I 
see now, that Th^rSse had best be my wife at once ; 
when she is near me, I shall never again think of 
Camille. I must look at this scar, by the way.” 

He went to the mirror and looked. The scar was 
of a pinkish hue. Laurent could distinctly see the 
marks made by the teeth of his victim, and the 
color rose to his face. He then perceived a strange 
phenomenon. The scar was crimsoned by this rising 
flush, and stood out red and angry on his white neck. 
At the same instant Laurent felt a little prickling 
sensation, as if needles had been driven into the wound. 
He hastily pulled up the collar of his shirt. 

“ Pshaw ! he said, “ that is nothing. Thdr&se will 
kiss and make it well ! What an idiot I am, to think 
of these things ! ” 

He put his hat on his head and went out. He 
needed air and exercise. As he went through the 
dark corridor and past the cellar door, he smiled, but 
nevertheless, stopped to see that the door was securely 
fastened. 

It was now about five o’clock, and Laurent walked 
for some time through the deserted streets. 

Laurent passed a most atrocious day, struggling 
against the sleepiness that assailed him the moment he 
took his seat at the desk. His head, in spite of every 
effort, would drop among his papers, and he would lift 
it with a start on hearing the footsteps of one of his 
8 


130 


THEEESE RAQUIN. 


chefs. This constant struggling broke down bis 
strength and made him feel really ill. 

That night, in spite of his fatigue, he went to see 
Therese. He found her feverish and ill ; quite as weary 
as he was himself. 

“ Our poor Th£r£se had a very bad night,” said 
Madame Iiaquin, as soon as he was seated. “It seems 
that she had a succession of nightmares whenever she 
fell asleep. I heard her cry out several times during 
the night, and this morning she was really ill.” 

While her aunt spoke, Tli^rese looked steadily at 
Laurent. Without doubt, they divined each other’s 
secret terrors, for each shuddered. They sat until ten 
o’clock, talking of common-place things, each entreat- 
ing the other — with eyes if not with lips — to hasten 
the moment when they could stand united against the 
drowned man. 


theeese r a quin. 


131 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Camille’s ghost. 

/ \ 

T HERESE, too, had been visited by the spectre of 
Camille, during this night of fever. 

Laurent’s passionate words, after months of seeming 
indifference, had greatly disturbed her. Her slumbers 
were restless, and she, too, in the silent watches of the 
night, had seen Camille’s ghost arise, and like Laurent, 
she, too, had said that she should know no such fears 
when her lover was at last near her. 

Thus at the same hour, these two guilty beings — this 
man and this woman — were strangely drawn together 
once more. They shuddered with the same cold 
fright — they had, so to speak, but one soul and one 
body with which to suffer. This sympathy, this mutual 
permeation — if we may be allowed the expression — 
is a psychological and physiological fact which often 
occurs between persons who, by a succession of great 
nervous shocks, are driven toward each other. 

For more than a year, Th^rese and Laurent had 
worn the chain that bound them together very lightly. 
In the dull exhaustion that followed the sharp crisis of 
the murder — in the disgust and need of forgetfulness 
that succeeded this exhaustion — these two criminals 
had come to believe that they were free, and that no 


132 


THEKESE R A QUIN. 


iron bond united them. The chain dragged on the 
ground between them and they forgot it. They were 
wrapped in slumbrous content, and even sought to 
turn their affections elsewhere and to live, each without 
the aid and support of the other. 

But on the day when, impelled by remorseless facts, 
they had again exchanged words of tenderness, the 
chain was violently wrenched and they felt a shock 
which told them that they were forever bound to- 
gether. 

Early the next day, Thdrese went to work and paved 
the way for her marriage with Laurent. It was a 
difficult task and one that was full of peril. The 
lovers trembled lest they should commit some impru- 
dence, and awaken suspicions by showing that they 
had some interest in the death of Camille. Realizing 
that it was wiser that the proposition should be made 
to them by Madame Raquin and her friends, rather 
than by themselves, they determined to suggest the 
idea delicately to these good people and allow it to 
ripen in their minds, and finally lead them to believe 
that they had originated it. 

This comedy was long and difficult to plan. Thdrdse 
and Laurent argued together as to the course they 
should pursue. They advanced with extreme caution, 
carefully weighing each word and each gesture, all the 
time devoured by impatience and nervous excitement. 
Thus they lived in the midst of incessant irritation, 
and required all their strength to keep up a semblance 
of smiles and serenity. 


THER^SE RAQUIN. 


133 


If they wished to hasten their marriage, it was 
because each was afraid to be alone, for now each 
night Camille’s spectre haunted their sleepless couches. 
Thdrdse no longer dared to go up to her room in the 
twilight, and when she was obliged to retire for the 
night, it seemed to her impossible that she could ever 
shut herself into that large, cold room, whose desolate 
height was peopled with strange shadows as soon as the 
light was extinguished. She fell into a habit of leav- 
ing her candle burning, and when her weary lids finally 
closed, she saw Camille in the darkness and opened her 
eyes with a start. 

In the morning she dragged herself down stairs, 
exhausted and depressed, having slept at the most not 
more than two or three hours. 

As to Laurent, he had become an arrant coward. 
Before that, he had never known what fear was — now, 
at the least unwonted sound, he started and turned 
pale, like a timid boy. His limbs had once shivered 
with terror, and this terror had never left them since. 

At night he suffered more than Therdse — he saw 
the day grow old with absolute agony — he watched 
the gradually growing darkness with a heart sinking 
with dread, and several times he spent the night in the 
deserted streets. Once he remained until daybreak 
under the shelter of a bridge, though it was raining 
hard. Stiff with cold, he for six hours watched the 
dull waters of the river running past, bearing on their 
breast, as it seemed to him, crowds of drowned men 


134 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


and women, borne onward by the current. When some- 
times he was so pitifully weary that he could hardly 
drag one foot after another, he would crawl up the stairs 
of his hotel, and throwing himself on his bed, would 
lie with wide open eyes until it was time for him to go 
to his office. If he dropped off into a feverish slum- 
her, he regularly dreamed that he held Therese in his 
arms, and that when his lips sought hers they met 
Camille’s. These repeated shocks wore on his huge 
frame until he looked and felt as if he had had a long 
attack of illness. 

This grew worse and worse ; they longed for each 
other only that they might sleep in peace. They had 
hesitated for a time whether this marriage should ever 
take place, each forgetting the reasons that had van- 
ished, after impelling them to murder. Now however, 
they again recalled these reasons for murdering Camille 
— that they might enjoy that happiness which they 
believed would be assured to them by marriage. 

Besides, it was with vague despair that they took 
the supreme resolution to legitimatize their union. 
Within the depths of their hearts they were afraid of 
each other, but in spite of this fear they realized that 
their only safety was in mutual companionship. They 
said to themselves that peace, at least, would follow 
this marriage, and they repeated over and over again, 
that it was absolutely necessary. 

Laurent had come to the conclusion that his father, 
the peasant at Jeufosse, would live forever, and if he 


T n E II E S E RAQUIN. 


135 


should chance to die that he would leave his property 
to his cousin, a hard working youth, who tilled the 
ground to the entire satisfaction of old Laurent. If 
this were to take place, Laurent saw himself condemned 
to live in an attic all the rest of his days without the 
ordinary comforts of life. He did not like work — his 
daily duties at his office were becoming more and more 
irksome to him, and he was more and more convinced 
that the height of earthly felicity was in doing nothing. 
He remembered that he had murdered Camille, not 
only to obtain Therese, but also to take the place of 
his victim in his mother’s house and heart, to be 
watched over as he had been, and to have every wish 
anticipated. If his act had been prompted by passion 
alone, he could never have been so prudent. The truth 
was, he had by this murder sought to assure himself 
of the comforts of his life, and of the lasting satisfac- 
tion of his appetites. 

All these thoughts and wishes now returned to him 
with more violence than ever, and he said to himself as 
an encouragement that it was high time for him to 
derive some profit from Camille’s death, and he dwelt 
on the advantages that he should gain in the future. 
He would leave his office, be his own master, and as 
idle as he pleased — eat and drink to his heart’s content 
and have a woman who adored him and was his humble 
slave always at his side. After a time Therese would 
inherit Madame Raquin’s forty thousand francs, for the 
poor woman must certainly die some day. In short, 


13G 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


he could create for himself the life of a happy animal 
and forget everything that now disturbed him. 

Scarce an hour elapsed after the date was fixed for 
his marriage, that Laurent did not fail to bolster up his 
, waning courage by repeating all these arguments to 
himself. He sought for new ones, and was delighted 
when he found the smallest additional proof which 
went to show, that to marry Th6r£se was his wisest 
plan of action. 

In vain, however, did he cling to the hope of an 
indolent, luxurious Future — he still felt a sudden chill, 
and a choking in his throat, whenever he counted the 
hours between then and his marriage. 


THE RE SE R A QUIN. 


137 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A CLEYER ACTRESS. 

~jll~E AN WHILE, the efforts of Thdrese and Laurent 
Jjrl. had accomplished their inevitable results. Th6r£se 
had adopted an air of resigned melancholy which, after 
a short time, made her aunt very uneasy. 

The old lady insisted on knowing what new cause of 
sadness afflicted her niece. Then ThdrSse played her 
role of an inconsolable widow with a cleverness that 
would have done honor to a distinguished actress; she 
spoke of her loneliness, and of the depression of her 
spirits, but assigned no cause. 

When her aunt urged her further, she would only 
reply that she was well, and did not know why she 
wept. Her sad smile and her tears drove the old lady 
to despair; and finally compelled her to feel serious 
anxiety lest the health of her niece should break down 
entirely. Madame Raquin had no one in the world 
but this niece, and she prayed God to preserve this 
child and allow her to close her eyes. 

A little selfishness unquestionably lay hidden among 
all the tender affection felt by the old lady for this 
beloved niece. She could not endure to think that 
Th^rese might be taken from her, and she left to die 
alone in this dreary shop. She hardly took her eyes 


138 


THEUESE RAQUIN. 


from her niece, and asked herself what she could do to 
alleviate the crushing despair she read in the face of 
the younger woman. 

Under these grave circumstances she turned for 
advice to her old friend Michaud. One Thursday 
evening, she detained him in the shop and spoke to 
him of her fears. 

“Yes,” said the old man with the frank brutality of 
his former profession. “ I have noticed for some time 
that Th^rese was in the sulks, and I know very well 
why.” 

“You know why?” exclaimed the old lady in great 
surprise. “ Tell me quickly then, I implore you.” 

“ The reason is very evident,” answered Michaud, 
with a coarse laugh. “ Your niece is out of spirits 
because she has no amusement. She needs a husband, 
any body can see that in her eyes ! ” 

These words were a terrible blow to poor Madame 
Raquin. She believed that the sorrow that had crushed 
her to the earth ever since the calamity at Saint-Ouen, 
was still equally felt by the young widow. Her son 
was dead to be sure, but she had never dreamed of the 
possibility that Th6r£se could marry again. 

“Marry her at once,” said Michaud, as he went 
away. “ You will lose no time if you take my advice, 
dear lady.” 

Madame Raquin could not accustom herself immedi- 
ately to the thought that her son was entirely forgotten. 
Old Michaud had not mentioned Camille’s name, and 


T II E II E S E K AQUI2T. 


139 


the poor mother perceived that she was the only person 
who continued to cherish her son’s memory. She wept 
bitterly, for it seemed to her that Camille had died 
anew. 

When she had wept until she was weary, she began 
to think that there might be some truth in Michaud’s 
words, and also to say to herself that it were best for 
her to buy some little happiness for her declining years 
even at the price of a marriage, which in her eyes was 
almost an insult to the memory of her son. 

Hers was not one of those natures that feel a bitter 
joy in eternal despair. She was kind-hearted and 
loving, and felt the need of sunshine and affection. 
Ever since her niece began to move about the house 
with this pale face and listless step, life had become 
almost intolerable to Madame Raquin, the shop was like 
a tomb to her. She longed to hear a laugh; she longed 
for anything that would gladden her days and enable 
her to look forward to that death which increasing 
infirmities told her could not be far off. 

These wishes unconsciously went far toward deter- 
mining her to accept this idea of marrying Thdr^se, 
and enabled her in some measure to forget her son. 
Her own spirits in fact revived with the new interest 
and occupation of her mind. 

She looked around for a husband for this beloved 
niece, and thought of little else. The choice of this 
husband was a matter of great importance, and in it the 
poor old lady thought more of herself than of Thdrese. 


140 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 


She wished her to marry some one who would make 
them both happy, for she feared that the new inmate 
of her house might add to her own unhappiness. The 
thought of introducing a stranger to their interior 
disturbed her, and it was this thought alone that pre- 
vented her from speaking openly to her niece on the 
subject. 

All this time Thdr£se played with that perfect 
hypocrisy acquired through her singular education — 
the comedy of utter depression. Laurent adopted the 
role of the useful, sensible man. He was full of little 
attentions toward the two women, especially toward Ma- 
dame Raquin. By degrees she began to regard him as 
indispensable — he alone brought life and gayety to her 
dreary home. When he failed to appear in the even- 
ing, the old lady was uneasy and restless, feeling that 
she had not the courage to face Th£r&se and her 
despair, without Laurent’s presence. 

Occasionally, he absented himself of an evening, 
that he might thus assert his power ; but he came in 
daily on his way from his office. He executed little 
commissions, and waited on Madame Raquin, handing 
i her the trifles she wanted, for the old lady now had 
great difficulty in rising from her chair, or in moving 
about without assistance. 

He told her anecdotes, and asked after her health in 
a sympathetic voice that went to the heart of the 
lonely old woman. He seemed especially anxious in 
regard to the health of Thdrese, showing his anxiety in 


THERESE RAQUIN. 141 

a friendly sort of way, with the air of a man who feels 
intensely the woes and sufferings of others. 

More than once he took Madame Raquin aside and 
horrified her by speaking with evident alarm of the 
great change he noticed in Thdrese. 

“We shall lose her soon,” he said, with melancholy 
pathos, “ we can no longer conceal from ourselves that 
she is seriously ill. And we shall lose all our sunshine 
in losing her.” 

Madame Raquin listened with a pang of anguish. 
Laurent had even the audacity to speak of Camille. 

“You see,” he continued, “the death of my poor 
friend was a terrible shock to her. She has been 
slowly dying of it in these two years that have elapsed 
since we lost Camille. Nothing will console her, 
nothing. will cure her, we, ourselves, can only learn 
resignation.” 

These impudent falsehoods sent the poor old soul 
into a spasm of sobs. She never heard Camille’s name 
without bursting into tears, and was always ready to 
embrace the person from whose lips the name had 
fallen. 

Laurent had noticed this, and knew that he could 
thus make her weep whenever he pleased, and so shake 
her with emotion that she would lose all clear percep- 
tion of what he said. 

Each evening, therefore, he conquered his own 
repugnance, and led the conversation to Camille, speak- 
ing of his rare qualities of mind and heart — lauding his 


142 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


victim to the skies. Sometimes when he met the eyes 
of Thdr&se fixed upon him with a strange, troubled 
look in their depths, he felt a cold chill. He ended, 
however, by believing all that he said of his victim — 
and then suddenly checked himself with a jealous pang 
lest his words of praise should cause the widow to 
think with admiration of the man they had together 
murdered. 

During all this conversation, Madame Raquin was 
in tears. She said to herself that Laurent was a gen- 
erous creature, and that he was the only person who 
remembered her son, or who ever spoke to her of him. 
As she dried her tears, she looked on the young man 
with loving eyes, and felt toward him almost as if he 
were her own son. 

One Thursday night, Michaud and Grivet were 
already in the dining room, when Laurent entered, and 
going up to Th^rese, asked earnestly for her health. 
He seated himself at her side for a moment, playing 
the part of an anxious friend, for the benefit of the 
lookers on. 

As the two sat in this way a little apart from the 
others, Michaud, who was looking at them, leaned sud- 
denly toward Madame Raquin, and with a little nod of 
the head in the direction of Laurent, said : 

“There is the husband for your niece. Arrange 
this marriage, we will assist you, if it is necessary.’* 

Michaud had a knowing air, for in his opinion this 
was a most brilliant idea of his; he regarded Laurent 
as the very husband for Th^rese. 


THERESE RAQUIK. 


143 


Madame Raquin, for the moment, was greatly start- 
led, but in an instant she realized all the advantages 
which she per so nail}’, would derive from the marriage 
of Thdrdse and Laurent. This marriage would simply 
draw those ties closer which already united both her- 
self and her niece to her son’s friend — to the good, 
kind man who came night after night to cheer them in 
their loneliness. 

In this way she would introduce no strange element 
to their home, and would run no risk of marring their 
tranquillity. But on the contrary she, while giving 
Th4r£se a husband on whom to lean, would herself find 
comfort in his companionship, and perhaps would 
secure a second son in this young man, who for twelve 
months previous to Camille’s death and for the two 
years following it, had shown her an almost filial 
devotion. 

It seemed to her moreover, that Tlnh-ese would be 
less unfaithful to Camille in marrying Laurent, than it 
she married any other man. So strange is the reason- 
ing of the human heart. Madame Raquin, who would 
have wept had she seen a stranger press a kiss on the 
lips of her son’s widow, felt no repugnance at the 
thought of Laurent taking this son’s place. 

All that evening, while her guests were playing 
dominos, the old lady watched the couple with a tender 
interest that told them their comedy had succeeded, 
and that the denouement was near. 

Michaud, before he left, had a short conversation 


144 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


with Madame Raquin in the corner ; and then taking 
Laurent by the arm, declared that he must accompany 
him part of the way. Laurent as he departed, 
exchanged a swift glance with Th6r£se, a glance that 
imparted confidence and enjoined caution. 

Michaud fSlt his way cautiously, saying to the young 
man that he was certainly very devoted to these two 
ladies ; and then seeing that he must speak more 
openly, asked abruptly why he did not marry Thdr£se. 
Laurent answered with some agitation that he regarded 
her only as the widow of his poor friend, and that he 
should consider it a sacrilege to approach her as a 
lover. 

The old man insisted, even going so far as to say 
that it was Laurent’s duty to give the poor old lady a 
son by marrying Th6r&se. The young man pretended 
to be slowly convinced — to be overcome by emotion, 
and to accept the thought of Thdrese as a blessing and 
inspiration sent from Heaven. 

When Michaud obtained a formal assent to his pro- 
position, he left his companion, rubbing his hands, for 
he had, as he believed, won a great victory, and was 
very proud that he had been the first to suggest this 
marriage, which would secure them their Thursday 
evenings forevermore. 

While Michaud was talking with Laurent, Madame 
Raquin had an almost similar conversation with 
Th^rdse. 

When her niece, with her usual wan smile, listlessly 


T1IEKESE EAQUIN. 


145 


rose to retire, the old lady detained her and questioned 
her, imploring her to be frank and tell her why she was 
so sad. Then, as she obtained only the vaguest replies, 
she spoke of the loneliness which must necessarily be 
the lot of a widowed wife, and while not precisely say- 
ing that she wished ThdrSse to marry again, asked if 
she had never thought of doing so. 

Thdrdse uttered an exclamation of horror, and 
declared that she should always remain faithful to 
Camille. Madame Raquin began to weep and then to 
plead against the dictates of her own heart, telling her 
niece that despair should never be eternal, and finally, 
in reply to the repeated asseverations of the young 
widow, suddenly mentioned Laurent. There was no 
reply, and the old lady began to expatiate with a tremb- 
ling voice on the advantages of this alliance. She 
emptied her soul — put into words the thoughts that 
had been her companions through the past wakeful 
night. She painted with unconscious selfishness the 
joy that the happiness of these two persons, whom she 
loved, would bring to her last days. 

Th^rcjse, apparently deeply touched, stood with 
bowed head, meek and submissive. 

“ I love Laurent,” she said finally ; “ I love him as if 
he were my brother, and if you desire it, I will try to 
love him as a husband. I would gladly do anything to 
add to your happiness. I hoped that you would allow 
me to weep in peace, but I will dry my tears since they 
disturb your tranquillity.” 

9 


146 


T II E R E S E PvAQUIxT. 


She embraced the old lady, who was shocked that 
she had been the first to forget her son, and after she 
was in her bed Madame Raquin turned her face to the 
wall and wept bitterly, accusing herself of being less 
faithful to Camille’s memory than his wife, and of 
desiring a marriage out of pure selfishness, which 
Thdrese accepted as a simple act of self abnegation. 

The next morning Michaud and his old friend had a 
brief conversation in the Passage, in front of the shop 
door. The} r communicated to each other the results 
of the steps they had taken, and agreed to carry the 
thing through at once by compelling the 3’oung people 
to become openly engaged that same evening. 

About five o’clock, Michaud was in the shop when 
Laurent entered. As soon as the young man was 
seated there, the old policeman said in his ear : 

“ She accepts.” 

These words were heard by Thdr£se. She was very 
pale and sat with her eyes 'riveted on Laurent. They 
looked at each other steadily for a few moments, as if 
saying, what next ? They both understood instantly, 
however, that they must accept the position without 
the smallest hesitation. Laurent rose and going to 
Madame Raquin, took her hands in his. She, poor 
woman, did her best to restrain her tears. 

“Dear mother,” he said, with a kind smile, “Monsieur 
Michaud and I talked over your welfare last night. 
Your children wish you to be happy.” 

The poor old soul, on hearing herself called dear 


THEKESE EAQUIN. 147 

mother, burst into tears, as she snatched the hand 
of her niece and placed it in that of Laurent. 

The two lovers shivered as their fingers met in a 
nervous grasp. The young man said in a hesitating 
voice : 

“ Th£r$se, shall we try and make your aunt happy ? ” 

“Yes,” she answered in a low voice; “we have a 
duty to fulfil.” 

Then Laurent, who was very pale, turned to Madame 
Raquin and added : 

“ When Camille fell into the water, he cried to me, 
4 Save my wife, I trust her to you ! ’ I think I am 
fulfilling his last wishes by marrying Th^rese.” 

Th^rese dropped Laurent’s hand as she heard these 
words. She felt as if she had received a blow full in 
her breast. She looked at him with wild and haggard 
eyes, while Madame Raquin sobbed out : 

“Yes, yes, my friend, marry her — make her happy 
— my son will thank you from his tomb ! ” 

Laurent caught at the back of a chair for support. 
Michaud, who was moved to tears, pushed Thdr£se 
toward him. 

“ Embrace her ! ” he cried. 

The young man touched the cheek of the young 
widow lightly with his cold, stiff lips, and she recoiled 
as if this kiss burned her like a red hot coal. This was 
the first caress she had ever received from this man in 
the presence of witnesses. All the blood in her body 
flew to her face, and she who had never known the 


148 THEEESE EAQUIN. 

meaning of the word shame, blushed like a girl of 
fifteen. 

After the crisis, the two murderers breathed freely. 
Their marriage was decided upon, and they had nearly 
attained the end to which they had so long aimed. 

All was settled that same evening. The following 
Thursday the marriage was announced to Grivet, to 
Olivier and to his wife. Michaud, on imparting the 
news, was delighted; he rubbed his hands and said 
delightedly: 

“ It was I who thought of that — it is I who made 
this match. You will admit that they will make a 
handsome couple.” 

Suzanne embraced Th4r&se in silence. This poor 
creature, more dead than alive, had conceived a strong 
friendship for the cold, reserved, young widow, and 
loved her as a child loves a superior, with a certain 
amount of respectful terror. 

Olivier congratulated the aunt as well as the niece. 
Grivet made rather a highly-spiced joke, which was 
received so coldly that he did not hazard another. The 
whole assembly, in fact, were highly delighted, and said 
it was a capital arrangement. They had, it must be 
said, an eye already to the wedding dinner. 

The manner of Laurent and Thdrdse toward each 
other, was simply the perfection of dignity — they were 
friendly and courteous, that was all. They seemed to 
be performing an act of unselfish duty. Not an 
expression in their faces, indicated the horror they felt 


T II E K E S E RAQUO. 


149 


as the wedding day drew near. Madame Raquin 
gazed at them with tender eyes, and testified in every 
possible way the gratitude she felt. 

There were some formalities to carry out. Laurent 
wrote to his father for his consent. The old peasant 
at Jeufosse, who had almost forgotten that he had a 
son in Paris, answered that he could marry or hang 
himself, whichever he preferred, and took occasion to 
add that he never intended to give him a sou, but 
would grant him full permission to commit whatever 
folly he pleased. 

A permission thus accorded strangely disturbed 
Laurent. Madame Raquin, after reading* the letter of 
this most unnatural father, had a kindly impulse which 
impelled her to do a most foolish thing. She had a 
deed drawn up, by which she gave to her niece every 
franc she owned in the world, and thus despoiled 
herself entirely, placing herself at the mercy of these 
two. 

Laurent caused it distinctly to be understood that 
he should resign his clerkship and devote himself to 
Art. The welfare of the little family was assured by 
the income accruing from the well- invested forty 
thousand francs added to the profits of the shop. On 
this amount these three could live very comfortably. 

The preparations for the marriage were hastened, 
and all the formalities abridged as much as possible. 
Every one of the habituS s of the Raquin mansion 
seemed desirous to lend their aid. 

The day came at last. 


150 


THEilESE R A QUIN. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE MARRIAGE DAY 


f HAT morning Laurent and Th^rese, separated by 



I a mile of streets and houses, opened their eyes 
with a similar sensation of intense joy — joy that their 
last night of lonely terror had been passed, and that 
in future they could defend each other against the man 
they had murdered. 

Th^rdse rose and dressed slowly, waiting until 
Suzanne arrived before she should put on her wedding 
garments. 

Laurent in his room, sat up in his bed and looked 
about, rejoiced at being able to say farewell to his 
mean attic. It was December and he shivered with the 
cold. 

Madame Raquin, knowing how straitened were his 
means, had slipped into his hand, a week before, a 
purse containing five hundred francs; all her little 
savings. The young man accepted the money without 
the smallest qualms of conscience, and purchased an 
entire outfit. This money also enabled him to offer 
ThdrSse the customary gifts. 

The black pantaloons, the coat and white vest were 
displayed on two chairs. Laurent made a most careful 
toilette. He wished to look well. As he fastened his 


THERESE R A QUIN. 


151 


stiff collar lie felt a sharp pain; the button slipped 
from his fingers ; he supposed the stiffly-starched edge 
had cut his throat. Wishing to ascertain, he lifted his 
head and looked in the glass. Then he saw that the 
wound made by Camille was very red ; the collar had 
grazed it. 

Laurent compressed his lips and turned very pale — 
the contemplation of this angry looking scar at this 
most inauspicious moment irritated him. He crumpled 
up the collar and threw it across the room, then selecting 
another he put it on with a thousand precautions. 
Then he finished dressing. 

When he descended the stairs he felt as if he were 
in irons — everything was stiff and uncomfortable. 
Each time he turned liis head, a fold of starched linen 
cut the tender skin across the wound. Incensed by 
this suffering he entered the carriage and drove to the 
shop. 

On his way he stopped to take up old Michaud and 
a fellow clerk in his office ; these two were to serve as 
witnesses. When they reached the shop every one was 
there and waiting. Grivet, and Olivier — as the bride’s 
witnesses — and Suzanne, who could not keep her eyes 
off Ther^se, feeling much as little girls do who have 
dressed their dolls in new clothes. 

Madame Raquin, although she found it very difficult 
to move, was determined to accompany her children. 
She was, therefore, placed in a carriage and drove off 
with the others. 


152 


TIIERESE RAQUIN. 


All went off well at the Mairie and at the Church. 
The modest self-possession of both bride and groom 
were noticed and highly commended. They uttered 
the fateful “Yes” with an emotion that greatly moved 
even Grivet. They were in a dream, every act was 
mechanical. While they knelt side by side, apparently 
in much humility, their hearts were swept by a wild 
whirlwind of passion. They avoided meeting each 
other’s eyes. When they entered the carriage it 
seemed to them that they were further apart than ever 
before in their lives. It was decided that the wedding 
dinner should take place at a little Restaurant on the 
height of Belleville. Michaud and the Grivets were the 
only guests. They drove, therefore, on the Boulevards 
until six o’clock, and then went to the Restaurant, 
where they found their table laid for seven, in a room 
painted yellow — where the air was thick with the 
smell of cooking and of wine. 

The dinner was not very ga}^. The newly married 
pair were very grave. Each had been conscious of 
certain strange emotions all that day which they could 
not explain to themselves. They were absorbed early 
in the morning by the preparations and subsequent 
formalities, and finally by the ceremony that bound 
them forever together. 

Afterward they had been lulled by the long drive 
on the Boulevard, it seemed to them that months had 
elapsed since they left the church — but they were in 
no haste to see this drive come to a conclusion. They 


T n E II E S E EAQUIN. 


153 


looked out at the succession of shops and at the people 
with dull, indifferent eyes ; they seemed to be wrapped 
in a torpor from which they would occasionally, with a 
forced laugh, endeavor to rouse themselves. 

When they entered the Restaurant it was with a 
sense of utter fatigue. 

At table they sat opposite each other — they smiled 
with an air of constraint and relapsed again into 
reverie. They ate, they drank and moved as if they 
were machines. They realized this fully, but could 
not understand it. Amid the lassitude of mind and 
body they were conscious that their marriage seemed 
to have driven them asunder rather than united them. 
It seemed to them that there was still a barrier 
between, a barrier which they had committed a mur- 
der to remove. Then they remembered that they were 
no longer to spend their nights apart — and vaguely 
wondered how this could be permitted. Their guests, 
who were laughing in the inane fashion that is one 
feature of wedding festivities, asked them if they never 
intended to address each other with more cordiality. 
They blushed deeply. How was it possible that they, 
blood-stained as they were, haunted by memories that 
would never die, could flaunt their guilty love in the 
faces of the lookers-on ? They had by this time for- 
gotten the one joy with which they had awakened that 
morning, the joy of knowing that henceforward their 
nights would be less lonely, that they would together 
face the spectre of the Past. They were now simply 


154 


T II E II E S E II A Q U I N . 


weary and tired by the tasks of the day. They sat 
there with vague smiles veiling an ever increasing 
uneasiness. 

And Laurent, as he moved his head, felt the same 
acute agony that had so tormented him in the morn- 
ing, for his collar continued to rub against the scar of 
the wound made by Camille. 

While the Mayor read the law — while the Priest 
spoke to them of God — during all the long hours 
of this unending day, he had felt the teeth of the 
drowning man meeting in his flesh. He once put up 
his hand hastily to see if blood were not running 
down on his breast and staining the whiteness of his 
vest. 

Madame Raquin was grateful to her niece and to 
Laurent for their gravity — noisy rejoicing would have 
wounded the poor mother, who felt that her son was 
present, and that it was he who, invisible to mortal 
eyes, placed the hand of Thdrese in that of Laurent. 

Grivet had no such ideas — he thought this dinner 
unspeakably dismal. In vain, however, did lie seek to 
cheer it — in spite of the stories with which Michaud 
and Olivier nailed him to his chair, whenever he 
attempted to rise and utter some platitude. 

Once, however, he succeeded in proposing a toast. 

“I drink,” he said, “to the health of the future 
family of this most excellent couple ! ” 

Therdse and Laurent turned deadly pale on hearing 
these words. They had never once thought of the 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


155 


possibility of having children — and the idea froze 
them with horror. 

They left the table early. The guests drove home 
with the newly-wedded pair. It was only half-past 
nine when they entered the Passage. The woman who 
sold false jewelry was still in her little stall, and lifted 
her head with some curiosity and with a strange smile 
on her lips. Both Laurent and Ther&se saw it and 
were greatly startled. Could it be possible that this 
old woman had in days past, during the life of Camille, 
seen Laurent glide into that little dark alley ! 

Therese went up stairs at once accompanied by her 
aunt and Suzanne — Laurent lounged in the shop below 
with old Michaud and Grivet. 

Presently Madame Raquin came in and said some- 
thing in a low voice to Laurent, who hastily left the 
room. 


156 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER XXL 


HORROR AND DISGUST. 

AURENT closed the door of his wife’s room behind 



I J him, and stood leaning against it in some embar- 
rassment. A bright fire blazed in the chimney throwing 
its reflections on the ceiling and on the w^alls. The 
room was thus so brilliantly lighted that the lamp 
burning on a table in front of the fire w r as unnoticed. 
Madame Raquin had taken great pleasure in arranging 
this apartment, which was dainty and fresh with lace 
and ribbons, while on the mantel stood vases of flowers. 
The air of the room was fragrant with the breath of 
these flowers and deliciously warm. 

Thdrese was seated in a low chair on the right of 
the fire. With her chin in her hand she was gazing 
fixedly at the flames. She did not turn her head when 
Laurent entered. She wore a long dressing gown 
trimmed with lace, which was of dazzling whiteness in 
this strong sharp light. 

Laurent moved slowty toward her, a long tress of 
hair hung over her shoulder, and stooping, he pressed 
his lips upon it. Th^rese threw herself back in her 
chair with a gesture of repugnance, and Laurent 
retreated, himself overcome with a sensation of cold 
horror. He seated himself opposite Therese on the 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


157 


other side of the chimney, and they both sat for fully 
ten minutes, silent and motionless. Occasionally the 
fire would stream up and these two guilty creatures 
would be enveloped in its red light. For two }'ears, 
the lovers had not seen each other alone — they had not 
met without the presence of witnesses since the even- 
ing that Therese had gone to la Rue Saint - Victor when 
Laurent had first thought of the murder. 

Prudence had kept them apart, and they had deter- 
mined to wait until their union was legalized before 
they should meet again. They had hardly permitted 
themselves a furtive pressure of the hand — and now 
here they sat face to face with the world shut out, and 
had but to extend their arms and clasp each other in a 
passionate embrace, and these arms were weary and 
strengthless ! 

They looked at each other with anxiety and embar- 
rassment, wonder-struck that their burning dreams had 
ended in this strange reality. 

They questioned themselves with desperate eager- 
ness, but could find not one ray of the passion that 
formerly burned with such fatal fury. They moment- 
arily became more and more embarrassed, that they 
could find nothing to sa} r to each other. Laurent 
wondered if he w r ere a fool, while Therese asked herself 
the same question. 

They had killed a man and for what? — they had 
played an atrocious comedy for this poor result. This 
denouement seemed to them cruelly ridiculous. Finally 


158 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


Laurent’s parched lips parted — he tried to speak of 
love, and evoked souvenirs of the past. 

“Th^rdse,” he said, leaning toward her, “do you 
remember the last time I was in this room ? I entered 
by that door then. To-day, I come in by the other. 
We are free to love each other now.” 

He spoke in a hesitating voice. She, shrinking back 
in her low chair, did not turn her eyes from the flames. 
She did not even hear him. 

Laurent continued: 

“Do you remember that day? I thought then that 
I should be the happiest of men if I could ever call 
3 r ou my wife — if I could pass a night by your side, and 
be wakened by your kisses.” 

Ther&se turned slowly as if disturbed by some per- 
sistent noise — the heat of the fire had flushed his face. 
She shuddered, for it revived the memory of the day 
on the Seine. 

The young man continued, nervously: 

“We have succeeded, Th6r$se. We have broken 
down every obstacle and we belong to each other. The 
Future is ours — is it not? A Future of tranquil 
happiness. Camille is no longer here — ” 

„ Laurent stopped short. At Camille’s name Th£r£se 
started violently. The two murderers gasped for 
breath, and looked furtively about the room. The 
bright firelight danced over the wall, the sweet fra- 
grance of the roses filled the air, and the wood crackled 
in the chimney. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


159 


All those terrible souvenirs of the Past were now let 
loose. Camille’s spectre came and seated itself between 
the newly- married pair in front of the flaming fire. 
Laurent and Th6r£se both felt the sudden freshness of 
the damp air brought in by the ghost, and they said to 
themselves that he was then near them, though he was 
as yet invisible to their mortal eyes. 

Then all the horrible details of their crime unrolled 
themselves one by one before them. The very name 
of their victim compelled them to feel once more all 
the agony of that. hour. They did not speak to each 
other with their lips, but the eyes of each told the 
other that this scene was before them. 

This exchange of terrified looks, this mute recital of 
the murder was intolerable — their nerves could no 
longer endure it. Laurent started to his feet, took two 
or three turns about the room, took off his boots and 
put on his slippers, then returned to his seat in the 
chimney corner, and tried to speak of indifferent 
subjects. 

Thdr&se understood this wish. She forced herself to 
reply to his questions ; they talked of the rain and the 
weather. Then Laurent remarked that the room was 
very warm. Th^rSse said no — that there was always 
a draught from the little door on the stairs. Then they 
both turned and looked at the door with a sudden 
shiver. 

The young man made haste to speak of the roses, of 
the fire, of anything he could think of that was gay and 


160 


THER^SE RAQUIN. 


bright, and Thdr^se struggled to reply even in mono- 
syllables, in order that the conversation should not 
drop. They drew their chairs a little further apart, 
and assumed a certain air of ease, trying to forget who 
and what they were, and to treat each other like 
strangers whom chance had thrown together. 

Notwithstanding all these efforts each b}~ a strange 
phenomenon, while uttering these common-place words, 
was fully conscious of the thoughts these words con- 
cealed. Each was thinking onty of Camille — their eyes 
told his story over and over again, and kept up a silent 
conversation beneath their audible one. 

The words they uttered signified nothing, all their 
energy was expended in this silent interchange of 
terrible souvenirs. When Laurent spoke of the roses 
or the fire, Thdrdse knew perfectly well that he was 
thinking of that struggle in the boat, and of the dull 
thud, when Camille was thrown in the water. 

And when ThdrSse answered with a yes or a no, 
Laurent knew that she was living over some detail of 
that crime. They had no idea what phrases they used, 
their thoughts were concentrated on the Past — they 
felt if they continued to speak that words would come 
to their lips unbidden — words which should name their 
victim and describe his murder. 

Then their lips closed, and a profound silence fell on 
the room, but this silence did not end the tale their 
eyes recounted. 

Sometimes it seemed to them that they had spoken ; 


TIIEKESE KAQUIN. 


161 


their nerves were all on the alert, and their sense of 
hearing became so acute that their very thoughts made 
themselves heard. 

Each heard the other cry in a voice of despair: 

“ We killed Camille, and his ghost sits there between 
us! ” 

Laurent and Therdse had begun their silent recital 
on the day of their first interview in the shop. Then 
the souvenirs came one by one in order, up to the 
terrible moment of the murder. It was then that they 
dropped their common-place conversation and ceased 
talking, lest in spite of their efforts,' the name of 
Camille should pass their lips. 

From this point they went on, living over again the 
agony and suspense of the time that followed until the 
day at the Morgue. Thus did they together behold 
the dead body lying there on the stones. Laurent’s 
staring e3 r es told this to Thdr£se, and she, gasping, felt 
that this appalling silence must be broken at any cost. 

“You saw him at the Morgue?” she asked, without 
naming Camille. 

Laurent seemed to expect this question. He had 
read it on the pale face of his companion before the 
words passed her lips. 

“ Yes,” he answered, in a choked voice. 

Both shivered — both drew up to the fire, and as by a 
mutual impulse extended their hands before the flames, 
as if an icy chill had suddenly invaded the room. They 
10 


162 THERESE R A QUIN. 

did not speak for a moment. Then Th^r&se said under 
her breath : 

“ Did lie seem to have suffered much ? ” 

Laurent could not reply. A ghastly vision rose 
before his eyes. He rose from his chair and advancing 
to ThdrSse, extended his arms. 

“ Kiss me ! ” he cried. 

Therese rose and stood with her arm on the mantel. 
She was looking intently at the scar on Laurent’s neck. 
He had taken off his coat and put on a loose dressing 
saeque. 

Therese turned her head away to avoid the kiss and 
lightly touching the scar on her husband’s neck, she 
said: 

“ What is that ? I never saw it before.” 

It seemed to Laurent that his wife’s finger was a 
thrust of a dagger; he drew back with a cry of acute 
agony. 

“ That ! ” he stammered, “ that — ” 

He hesitated — but he could not lie, something 
stronger than himself compelled him to speak the truth: 

“ Camille bit me, you remember in the boat. It is 
nothing, it healed at once. Will you not kiss the scar, 
and soothe the pain I sometimes feel in it ? ” 

Therese, almost with a shriek of horror, pushed him 
from her. 

“ My God ! ” she cried. “ Have mercy upon me ! ” 

As she spoke, she sank on the floor, writhing in 
despair. Laurent stood looking at her in stupid wonder. 


163 


THERESE RAQUIN. 

Then, all at once, he knelt at her side, and with the 
violence of an animal, he lifted her head between his 
large hands and pressed her cold lips against the scar 
that burned on his neck. She, half fainting, did not 
struggle, but when he released her, sank back on the 
floor with piteous moans. 

Laurent, ashamed of his brutality, began to pace the 
room. It was the agony, like ten thousand red hot 
needles, that had induced him to demand this kiss from 
Th£r£se, but the touch of her lips on the wound had 
been infinitely worse ; not for the world would he have 
undergone a second shock of the same kind. 

He looked at this woman with whom his future life 
was to be spent. As she lay cowering before the fire, 
he said to himself that he did not love her, and that she 
did not love him. 

For more than an hour Th6r£se was perfectly silent 
and motionless, while Laurent paced the room. Each 
was silently saying that love was dead. They had 
killed it when they killed Camille. The fire was 
burning low — the heat was becoming intense in the 
room, the roses were withering and the air was stifling. 

Suddenly Laurent stood still. As he turned he had 
seen Camille standing in a dark corner between the 
wardrobe and the chimney. The face of his victim 
was discolored and convulsed — as he had seen it at 
the Morgue. He remained nailed to the floor, clutching 
a table. 

At the sound of his labored breathing Th^rSse 
turned. 


164 


THERI5SE RAQUIN. 


“ There ! there I ” gasped Laurent, with arm extended 
toward the corner, where he still saw Camille’s face. 

Th^rese hurried to his side and, grasping his arm in 
her fright, looked in the direction to which he pointed. 

“It is his portrait,” she whispered softly, as if the 
painted head of her former husband could hear what 
she said. 

“ His portrait ? ” repeated Laurent, hoarsely. 

“Yes, you know, the one you painted. My aunt 
intended to have taken it to her room to-day. She 
must have forgotten it.” 

“ To be sure — it is his portrait.” 

The murderer hesitated to admit this. In his agita- 
tion he forgot that he himself had designed these 
distorted features. In his fright he saw the picture 
for the first time as he had really painted it — hideous, 
unnatural, and appalling, both in color and drawing. 
His own work shocked him by its ugliness. The eyes 
looked exactly like those in the Morgue. He was reas- 
sured only when he perceived the frame of the picture. 

“ Go, take it down,” he said to his wife. 

“No — no — I am afraid,” she answered, with a 
shudder. 

Laurent began to tremble again. The frame disap- 
peared and he saw only the eyes of the picture fixed 
on him. 

“ Oh ! ” he said, “I implore you to take it down.” 

“ No — no” — 

“We will turn it against the wall, and then we will 
not be afraid.” 


THlSR^SE RAQUIN. 


165 


“No — I cannot.” 

The murderer pushed his wife gently toward the 
picture, hiding behind her that he might conceal himself 
from those dreadful eyes. She escaped his grasp and 
he, summoning all his courage, went up to the portrait 
and, with uplifted arm, tried to find the nail. But the 
eyes watched him with such intentness that Laurent 
w r as vanquished and, drawing back, said : 

“You are right, Th^rese — your aunt must take it 
down to-morrow.” 

He resumed his walk up and down the room. Each 
time he passed near the picture he could not refrain 
from looking at it and from a shiver as he met the eyes. 

The thought that Camille himself was there watching 
him soon became a fixed idea, and Laurent felt as if he 
were going mad. 

Finally, a thing occurred that completed the ghastly 
sequence. — He was just in front of the fire when he 
heard a strange scratching sound. He turned ghastly 
pale, feeling certain that it was Camille stepping down 
from his frame. In a moment he discovered that the 
noise came from the little door on the stairs. 

* He looked at Ththese with ever-growing fear. 

“ There is some one there,” he whispered ; “ who 
can it be ? ” 

His wife did not reply. They both thought of the 
dead man, and simultaneous^ rushed to the further 
end of the room, expecting to see the door burst open 
and Camille standing there. 


166 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


The noise continued. With strange, irregular per- 
tinacity their victim was scratching on the wood. For 
five minutes they held their breath. Then they heard 
a new sound which Laurent, to his intense relief, at 
once recognized. It was Madame Raquin’s cat, who 
had been shut out by accident. 

Laurent opened the door cautiously and Francois 
walked in. The creature was always afraid of Laurent ; 
with one bound he leaped on a chair with every hair 
on end, and looked his new master in the face with 
grim ferocity. 

Laurent hated cats, and Francois almost frightened 
him. His nerves were so unstrung that he felt as if 
this cat knew all, and was ready to leap at his throat 
to avenge Camille, and the young man dropped his 
eyes before the brute’s round eyes. He lifted his foot. 

“ Don’t hurt him ! ” cried Th6r$se. 

This cry made a singular impression on Laurent. 
An absurd idea entered his head. 

“Camille’s spirit has entered that cat,” he thought. 
“ I must kill the creature. It looks as if it understood 
every word we said.” 

He did not kick the animal, however, lest it should 
address him in Camille’s voice. Then he remembered 
the day so long ago when Ther^se had uttered her 
little jests about the creature, and remembered how 
he had then told her that the animal knew too much, 
and that he would throw it out of the window. 

But he had not now the courage to attempt this, so 


THlSRESE EAQUIN. 


167 


warlike was the attitude of Francois, who with his 
back up, followed each movement of his adversary with 
keen attention. Laurent was disturbed by the metallic 
glitter of the creature’s eyes. He opened the door 
into the dining-room, and the cat fled with a long 
dreary wail. 

Th^rese seated herself again before the dying fire. 
Laurent resumed his steady tread up and down the 
room. They were waiting for the dawn — would it 
never come? Should they never be able to escape 
from this room in which they were shut up together ? 
They longed for some third person to break this silent 
t6te-a-t§te. They were weary of this long silence, so 
full of bitter despair and dumb reproaches. 

Day came at last, grey and desolate, bringing with it 
a penetrating chill. 

When this cold light filled the room, Laurent shiv- 
ered, but still was conscious that he felt calmer. He 
went up to Camille’s portrait and saw it as it was — 
a perfectly common-place face. He took it down and 
leaned its face to the wall. 

“ Upon my word,” he said roughly, “ I hope we shall 
sleep to-night, for this sort of thing can’t go on long.” 

Th6r$se fixed her grave eyes upon him. 

“ We are two children,” he continued, “ but I really 
think you are the most to blame, with your ghostly 
ways. To-night I beg that you will try and be a little 
gayer and not frighten me out of my wits.” He 
laughed, or rather pretended to laugh. 

“ I will try,” said his wife coldly. 


168 


THlSEESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A GHOSTLY VISION. 

HESE two unhappy beings had hoped that when 



1 they were together, they could protect themselves 
against the haunting memories of the Past, but 
strangely enough they found that their terror was now 
greater than ever. They could not speak to each other 
without a thrill of horror. A word or look was enough 
to bring all the details of their crime before them. 

The nervous nature of Thdrese affected in a most 
fantastic manner the sanguine, heavy nature of 
Laurent. Formerly, this difference in temperament 
had made of this man and woman a most powerful 
couple by establishing in them a sort of equilibrium — 
completing their organism, so to speak. But now the 
excited nerves of Tli^rese overpowered Laurent; he 
was like a young girl suffering with disease. 

Before knowing Th6rese, Laurent had all the calm- 
ness and the prudence of a peasant’s son. He ate, 
drank and slept like an animal. He rarely felt an 
emotion. Occasionally his heavy nature was stirred a 
little, but that was all. 

ThdrSse had developed all his nerves and given 
them the most astonishing sensibility. He lost his 
calmness, and trembled at every shadow like a cow- 


169 


T H £ R E S E RAQUIN. 

ardly child, and finally his insomnia made him almost 
insane. 

His remorse, however, was purely physical. His 
body, his trembling flesh alone, were afraid of the dead 
man. His conscience »:had nothing to do with his ter- 
rors, and he did not in the least regret having killed 
Camille. When he was calm, and the spectre was no 
longer there, he would have been entirely ready to 
commit the foul deed again, had he believed that it 
was to his interest to do so. 

During the day he rallied from his fright, and prom- 
ised himself that he would never again so lose his self- 
control. It was Ther&se, he said, who brought on 
these frightful scenes. But when night came and he 
was alone with his wife, cold perspiration broke out all 
over him, and he was a very child in his fears. 

The words “illness,” and “nervous attacks,” must 
be used to describe Laurent’s condition. His face was 
convulsed, his limbs stiffened — it was plain that he 
suffered intensely. 

Therese too, was strangely shaken, but she felt a 
certain remorse and regret that were unknown to Lau- 
rent. She was tempted sometimes to shriek out to 
Camille that if he would forgive her she would spend 
her life in repentance. 

Night after night these two wretched creatures sat 
before the fire ; when overcome with fatigue they slept 
an hour or two in their chairs, hoping thus to avoid 
the night-mare and phantom that would visit them were 


170 


T H £ R E S E RAQUIN. 


they to lie down on their bed. When they awoke 
they were stiff and sore, shivering with cold and more 
than half ill. They fought against sleep as loijg as 
they could. They talked of a thousand nothings, each 
looking from out the corners of their eyes at the space 
between then ront of the fire, in which 



Camille seated, warming 


they fancied 


his feet at the flames. This vision returned each night 
with frightful pertinacity. They dared not move, and 
after looking into the fire for sometime, their eyes half 
blinded created the vision they dreaded. 

Finally Laurent determined not to sit by the fire, but 
he did not tell Th6r£se why. She knew however, that 
it was because he saw Camille as she saw him, and she 
said in her turn that the fire made her ill, and that she 
would be more comfortable away from it. She pushed 
her chair to the foot of the bed, and sat there watching 
her husband as he paced the room. Occasionally, he 
opened the window and let in the January blast. This 
assuaged the fever in his veins in some degree. This 
life continued for a week — they slept a little during 
the day — Th^rdse behind her counter, Laurent in his 
office. 

The strangest thing of all, however, was the attitude 
they maintained toward each other. They never 
breathed one word of love, they feigned to have for- 
gotten the Past. They tolerated each other as people 
tolerate the sufferings of other invalids. Each hoped 
to conceal from the other their disgust and mutual 


TIIERESE K A Q U I N . 


171 


abhorrence, and neither seemed to think that these 
strange nights told the story more clearly than any 
words could have done. They pretended to believe 
that their conduct was not in the least strange — their 
hypocrisy was that of two mad creatures. 

One night their fatigue was so great that they threw 
themselves, dressed as they were, on the bed, and after 
two or three nights spent in this way, they retired as 
husband and wife generally do. Therese went first 
and lay with her face to the wall, while Laurent kept 
on the very edge of the bed. 

Between them was a large space, and in that space 
lay Camille. 

When the two murderers thus lay side by side, with 
closed eyes, each imagined that Camille, cold and wet, 
lay between them. Fever and delirium clouded their 
brains, and this obstacle became a material one to them ; 
they touched the body, they saw it — each one of their 
senses shared their hallucination. The presence of this 
third person filled them with silent horror. Laurent 
dared not lift his hand lest he should touch Camille. 
He said to himself that the spectre was jealous. 

Sometimes, however, they summoned all their cour- 
age and exchanged a swift kiss, and then held their 
breath to see what would happen. But their lips were 
so cold that Death seemed to have chilled them. 
Therese shivered with horror, and Laurent, who heard 
her teeth chatter, cried out angrily : 

“ What on earth is the matter ? Are you afraid of 
Camille ? ” 


172 


th£r£se raquin. 


Neither dared to confide the precise cause of his 
terror to the other. When the vision of the pale, 
distorted face of their victim rose before one of the 
murderers, he closed his eyes, and shut himself up 
with his terror rather than speak of this hallucination, 
lest some other more terrible still should succeed it. 

When Laurent, in rage and despair, accused Tli^rese 
of being afraid of Camille, this name pronounced so 
loudly, redoubled his anguish. The murderer raved 
deliriously. 

“ Yes, yes,” he repeated, “you are afraid of Camille. 
I see it perfectly well. You are a fool, and water runs 
in your veins instead of blood. You haven’t an ounce 
of courage. Can’t you sleep in your bed? Do you 
suppose your first husband is coming to pull you out 
by your feet because I am here ? ” 

This frightful suggestion caused the hair of both to 
rise from their heads, but Laurent continued with even 
more violence : 

“ I will take you some night to the cemetery. We 
will open Camille’s coffin, and when you see his 
body is there, then perhaps you won’t be frightened 
any more. Do you suppose he knows that we threw 
him into the water ? ” 

Ther&se covered her head and sobbed convulsively. 

“ Did we not drown him because he was in our 
way?” continued her husband. “We should do the 
same thing again if he were here now, should we not? 
Don’t be so childish. Why can’t we be happy 


th£rese raquin. 


173 


together? You see, my dear, when we two are dead 
we shall be just as comfortably in our graves as if we 
had not killed this fool. Gome now, kiss me.” 

His wife obeyed, but her cold lips chilled him. 
Laurent for more than a fortnight questioned himself 
as to what method he should adopt to slay this new 
Camille. He had drowned him, but he was still alive, 
and visited them every night. When the murderers 
believed they were to reap their guilty harvest, their 
victim was resuscitated. 

Ther£se was no widow, and Laurent found that he 
was tied for life to a woman whose husband was the 
ghost of a man they had murdered ! 


174 


THERESE RAQtJIN. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

INSANITY. 

L AURENT’S madness gradually increased. He 
determined to drive Camille away, but was him- 
self crushed by despair at finding that, the companion- 
ship of Thdrese had, so far from bringing the relief he 
anticipated, only aggravated his sufferings. The ghost 
was always there. If Laurent could have known that 
Thdrese was unconscious of what was to him this 
dread reality, he could have better supported it. 

Th6r£se, who would have thrown herself into the 
flames, if she had believed that these flames would 
have purified her flesh and relieved her of this torture, 
was wild with agony. Her nerves were all unstrung, 
her eyes wild. 

It seemed to her, in her growing insanity, that all 
their misery rose from this scar on Laurent’s neck, and 
that if she could smooth away this scar by kisses and 
caresses, that they might sleep in peace. But her lips 
burned it and Laurent pushed her aside with a moan of 
pain — it seemed to him that his skin had been seared 
by a red hot iron, and from that time he would not 
allow her to touch the scar. He seemed to have a 
morbid fear lest she should bite him as Camille had 
done. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


175 


Every time that Laurent attempted to conquer his 
repugnance and took- ThbrSse in his arms, both felt a 
strange shock as if thousands of burning needles were 
pricking them. Then his wife tore herself from his 
arms, and burst into sobs and moans, in which her 
husband joined, and amid their agony they heard the 
sneering laugh of their victim exulting at their dismay. 
Both husband and wife realized that they had tried 
their final plan of exorcising the spectre, and that 
Camille had won the victory, and weeping bitterly, 
they broke the sullen silence of the night by asking 
each other how long they had to live, and how they 
could endure this agony and horror. 


176 


THERESE 11 A Q U I N . 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SELFISHNESS REWARDED. 

O LD Michaud, in working so assiduously to bring 
about this marriage, did it with the hope that it 
would impart to their Thursday reunions all their 
former gayety. These soirees since Camille’s death, 
had been regarded by the JiabituSs of the Raquin 
mansion as standing upon a very insecure basis. Each 
week as they presented themselves at the door, it was 
with the fear of finding it closed. Michaud and Grivet 
were creatures of habit, adhering to the routine of 
their lives with the blind instinct of brutes. They 
said to themselves that the aged mother and young 
widow would some day take it into their heads to 
return to Vernon, or some other secluded spot, where 
they might weep for their dear departed undisturbed, 
and that they would not then know what to do with 
themselves on their Thursday evenings. They pictured 
themselves returning homeward dreary and disconso- 
late, longing for their beloved game of dominos. 

In hourly dread of this disaster, they entered the shop 
with timid steps, saying to themselves that this would 
probably be the last time that they should be there. 
For more than a year they had felt this anxiety, and in 
addition they could neither laugh nor talk as they 


TIIERESE RAQUItf. 177 

wished in the presence of Madame Raquin’s tears, and 
of the mournful silence of the widow. 

They did not feel at home, as in the days when 
Camille had welcomed them, and they were as uneasy 
as if each of these evenings that they passed around 
the table in the dining-room had been stolen. 

It was under these desperate circumstances that the 
selfishness of old Michaud caused him to conceive the 
plan of marrying the widow to Laurent. 

On the Thursday after the marriage, Grivet and 
Michaud made a triumphal entrde. They had won a 
grand victory. The dining-room was their conquered 
territory — they no longer feared a dismissal, but estab- 
lished themselves with the air of happy proprietors, 
and began to exchange their little jokes which, although 
somewhat stale, they thought most admirable. 

By their beaming faces and confident manner, it was 
easy to read that in their opinion a tremendous revolu- 
tion had taken place. Camille had vanished forever; 
they thought his memory would no longer mar the 
gayety of these Thursdays ; the living husband had 
taken the place of the dead one, and there was no 
further reason for dreary faces and bated voices. 
They, the guests, might now laugh without wounding 
the feelings of any one, and in fact, they felt that, it 
was their duty now to laugh as much as possible, in 
order to enliven this excellent family. 

From this time Grivet and Michaud, who for 
eighteen months had come to the house on the pretext 
11 


178 


T H & R E S E RAQUIN. 


that Madame Raquin needed them, could now lay aside 
their petty hypocrisy and come there frankly, to sleep 
opposite each other to the dull clicking of the ivory 
dominos. And regularly each Thursday evening, these 
grotesque heads which had formerly so exasperated 
Therese, gathered around this table. 

This exasperation had now increased to such a 
degree, that she talked of saying to these people in the 
plainest words that she would not have them there. 
They grated on her nerves ; their silly laughter angered 
her; their foolish sentiments made her feel that she 
must tell them what idiots they all were. 

But Laurent bade her be quiet, told her that to do 
this would make enemies of these men — that their 
Present must be as much like their Past as possible, 
and that above all things, they must preserve the 
friendship of the Police, for the fools protected them 
against all suspicion. Tlffirese submitted, knowing 
that what her husband said was true, and their guests 
looked forward in calm beatitude to a long succession 
of Thursday evenings. 

Laurent was in the habit of leaving his room at a 
very early hour. He was not at ease, nor did he 
resume his usual calm egotism until he was seated in 
the dining-room before a huge bowl of caf6 an lait , 
prepared for him by Therese. Madame Raquin no 
longer attended to the affairs of the household and 
with difficulty descended to the shop, which she did 
not do until she with maternal solicitude had looked 


T H R E S E RAQUItf. 


179 


on while Laurent ate his breakfast. The coffee warmed 
him and he began to feel more comfortable, particu- 
larly after he had swallowed a small glass of cognac. 
Then he pulled down his vest and throwing back his 
head, wished Madame Raquin and Thtirese a very good 
morning and lounged off to his office. 

Spring had arrived ; the trees along the Quais were 
covered with tiny leaves, like a light lace of pale green. 
The river flowed past with a soothing ripple, and the 
sunshine was bright and warm. Laurent felt like a 
different man in the open air, and drank in large 
draughts of the new life that descends from the skies 
of April and May. He stood in the sunlight looking 
down on the Seine, enjoying with all his senses this 
delicious morning. At these times he rarely thought 
of Camille; if he did, it was with the courage of a 
man whose stomach is full, and whose nerves are dulled. 

He reached his office and then yawned all day long. 
He fulfilled his duties like a machine, as did the other 
clerks. The only idea that he had during the day, 
was that he meant soon to send his resignation, and 
then he should hire an atelier. He dreamed vaguely 
of an easy sort of life, and thus the day slipped away. 
The recollection of the shop in the Passage, of Camille, 
and Tlffir&se, never came to disturb him. 

When night arrived, though he had all day long 
looked forward to it as his release from work, he left 
the office with regret, and wandered along the Quais 
with vague apprehension. He walked as slowly as 


180 


TH&RESE RAQUIN. 


possible — but in spite of his dragging, reluctant feet 
he reached the shop at last. 

There the spectre awaited him. 

Therese experienced much the same sensations. 
When Laurent was not near her she was at ease. She 
had dismissed their one servant, saying that she was 
dirt}", and that she preferred to attend to their rooms 
herself. The truth was she needed constant occupa- 
tion, and hoped that physical fatigue would ensure 
sleep at night. 

She worked vigorously all the morning, sweeping, 
dusting and washing dishes — in short, doing just 
those things which formerly she had loathed. These 
cares kept her on her feet until noon. Active and 
silent she thought of nothing but the spiders hang- 
ing from the ceilings, and of the saucepans to be 
scoured. 

Madame Raquin was disturbed by seeing her niece 
rise from the table to change her plate after she had 
cooked the twelve o’clock breakfast. She was vexed 
at the obstinacy of her niece, and asked why she did 
not get another servant in the place of the one she had 
discharged — but Th6r$se told her that they must be 
more economical now than they had been. 

After the meal was over Therese dressed and joined 
her aunt in the shop. When seated behind the counter 
she regularly fell asleep — for the wakeful hours of the 
nights she had passed and the fatigue of the morn- 
ings was such that the moment she sat down her eyes 
closed. 


THERESE llAQUIN. 


181 


Her sleep was not heavy — she dozed rather than 
slept, but her exasperated nerves were soothed. The 
recollection of Camille left her — she was like an 
invalid whose pain has suddenly departed. 

But for these brief moments, when the tension under 
which she lived was thus relaxed, her strength would 
have entirely given way. She thus gathered force with 
which to combat the horrors of the coming night. 

When a customer came in she opened her eyes, gave 
her the merchandise required, and then relapsed into 
her doze. In this way she passed two or three hours 
in perfect happiness, answering her aunt in reluctant 
monosyllables, unwilling that her rest should be 
disturbed. She glanced out at the Passage occa- 
sionally, and was conscious of being vaguely thankful 
that it was not gayer or brighter, and that she, there- 
fore, was not so likely to be disturbed. 

This obscure Passage , traversed only by the lower 
classes, hurrying along through the rain under shabby 
umbrellas, seemed to her a place where no one would 
be likely to come and harass her. Sometimes, when half 
awake, she perceived the odor of damp earth and saw 
only the faint daylight coming in through the gray 
windows, she fancied that she was buried alive. 

This thought did not disturb her — she was, on the 
contrary, rather soothed and consoled by it — for she 
said that at least she was safe — and no one could 
torture her more. 

Suzanne brought her embroidery sometimes in the 


182 


TH^EESE EAQUIN. 


afternoon and sat near the counter at work. This 
woman, with her gentle face and slow, languid move- 
ments, pleased Th^rese, who felt a strange relief when 
this pale, young creature was near her — and when 
Suzanne fixed her blue eyes on hers, it seemed to her 
that they cooled the hot fever of her blood. 

At four o’clock Th6r$se went to her kitchen to pre- 
pare dinner for Laurent with feverish haste. And 
when her husband appeared at the door all the old 
agony overwhelmed her. 

The sensations of the husband and wife were each 
day almost precisely similar. When they were apart 
each snatched some hours of repose — but in the even- 
ing when they met, it was with the same sinking of 
the heart, the same shiver of dread. 

The evenings were calm to all appearance, however. 
Th6r£se and Laurent made them as long as possible, so 
much did they dread shutting themselves into their 
room alone with each other. Madame Raquin, sitting 
between them in a deep arm chair, talked in a placid, 
monotonous fashion. She spoke "of Vernon, thinking 
always of her son, but with great delicacy avoided 
mentioning him. She smiled tenderly on her two dear 
children, and made many little plans for the happiness 
of their Future. The lamp light imparted unusual 
pallor to her kind face, and her voice was low and 
sweet. 

On either side of her chair sat the guilty creatures 
whom she loved, listening to her babble with what she 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


183 


believed to be tender respect — in truth, they did not 
know what the old lady said. They did not trouble 
themselves about the sense of her words; they were 
only anxious that she should not suspect the lateness 
of the hour and so leave them together. Her voice 
prevented them from hearing their own thoughts. 
They did not dare meet each other’s eyes, and to look 
at Madame Raquin was their refuge. 

They would have remained there until morning 
listening to the old lady. When she finally rose to go 
they could have clutched her garments and implored 
her to remain. Then they, too, were obliged to leave 
the dining-room, where their evenings had been passed, 
and, closing the door, shut themselves in with the 
spectre. 

Then soon began to look forward to their Thursday 
evenings, for after a time the babble of Madame 
Raquin ceased to calm their anguish — her low voice 
and faint laugh could not stifle the voice of Camille or 
his cry as the water closed over his head. And from 
the very beginning of the evening, they now began to 
dread its end. 

On Thursdays, however, they forgot each other, and 
in this oblivion suffered less. Thdr&se began to look 
forward to them as her one distraction during the week. 
If Michaud and Grivet had not appeared, she would 
have gone in search of them herself. When there were 
strangers in their dining-room she was more at ease — 
she wished they could always be there — that she could 


184 


T II £ It E S E RAQUIN. 


live in constant bustle and excitement — in anything 
that could occupy her thoughts and her time. 

Laurent, too, was a different being on these evenings. 
He laughed and told his old stories, and the receptions 
had never been so gay nor so noisy. 

Thus it happened that on one evening in each week 
Th^rese and Laurent could see each other face to face 
without a crawling of the flesh and a cold, sick horror. 

Before long a new fear assailed them. Madame 
Raquin had a slight stroke of paralysis, and they 
feared that another would render her helpless. The 
poor lady began sentences that she never finished, used 
one word when she intended to use another, and stam- 
mered on, unconscious of her mistake. Her voice had 
became weaker, her memory failed, and all her senses 
seemed to be leaving her, one by one. 

Th6r&se and Laurent watched these changes in 
despair. What would become of them when this 
being, whose presence and gentle voice exorcised the 
spectre, should cease to live ? 

Then they would be always alone with each other. 
All their efforts were now devoted to the preserva- 
tion of Madame Raquin’s health, now become so 
precious. They sent for the most famous physicians, 
purchased the costliest drugs and devoted themselves 
to her in every possible way. In these cares, they 
found a certain relief, which caused them to redouble 
their zeal. They could not be reconciled to the idea 
that they were to lose their one companion, the one 


THERESE R A QUIN. 


185 


person who prevented the house, and more especially 
the dining-room, from becoming as ghostly as their 
own room. 

Madame Raquin was profoundly touched by these 
eager cares, which they lavished upon her. She con- 
gratulated herself with tears on having married them, 
and on having given to them her forty thousand francs. 

Never, after her son’s death, had she looked forward 
to such affection in her last hours — her age and infir- 
mities were made easy to her by the tenderness of 
her dear children, and she hardly realized her daily 
increasing helplessness. 

Meanwhile, Th£r&se and Laurent continued to lead 
their double existence. In each of them were two 
distinct beings, one nervous and shrinking — trembling 
as soon as twilight crept on, and another dull and 
torpid, who breathed easily as soon as the sun rose. 
They lived two lives, one of anguish when alone with 
each other, and of smiling peace when strangers were 
near. Never once did their faces in public show the 
smallest indication of their carefullj-concealed despair, 
or the hallucinations that prevented them from closing 
their eyes at night. Any one would have supposed 
that it was the happiest household in the world. Grivet 
called them, gayly: “the turtle doves,” and ventured 
on many coarse jokes under which neither Laurent nor 
Thdrese flinched, for they were accustomed to them. 

As soon as they were in the dining-room surrounded 
by their friends, they regained their self-control, while 


186 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 


the human mind is incapable of grasping the terrors 
that assailed them when they entered their own room ; 
had they attempted to describe them, their friends 
would have thought they had gone mad. 

“ Are they happy ? ” said old Michaud to himself, 
sometimes. “ They never speak to each other, but I 
suppose they think all the more ! ” 

Such was the opinion of all the little circle, and 
Laurent and Therdse were cited as a model couple. 
The inhabitants of the Passage du Pont-Neuf pointed 
to their affection as an example, and said the lives of 
these two was a perpetual honey moon. These miser- 
able creatures were the only ones who knew that 
Camille’s cold body stood always between them ; they 
alone realized that as the hours wore on their penance 
would begin, and felt the nervous twitching of the 
muscles under the smooth skin which, at night, increased 
to convulsions, and wofully distorted their placid faces. 


THERESE RAQUIK. 


187 


CHAPTER XXV. 


IN THE STUDIO. 


T the end of four months, Laurent seriously con- 



iA sidered the possibility of turning his back on all 
the advantages he had promised himself. He would 
have abandoned his wife and fled before Camille’s 
spectre three days after his marriage, if his interest had 
not nailed him to this shop. He accepted these terrible 
nights, in order that his crime might not have been 
uselessly committed. In leaving Therdse, he sank again 
into poverty, and would be obliged to keep his clerk- 
ship. If on the contrary he continued to live under 
her roof, he could be as idle as he please, and live in 
comfort on the interest of the money that Madame 
Raquin had given to his wife. My readers will under- 
stand, that could he have realized this money by selling 
the securities that he would have taken it and fled ; 
but the old lady, acting under the advice of her old 
friend Michaud, had the prudence to protect the inter- 
ests of her niece in the marriage contract. 

Laurent was thus tied to Thdr^se by the most power- 
ful of bonds — he determined to be supported in com- 
pensation for his fearful nights in indolence, to be well 
fed and well clothed, and to have in his pockets money 
enough to gratify his small caprices. Only at this price 


188 


TH^R^SE EAQUIN. 


would he continue to associate with the ghost of the 
dead man. He said this to himself with a grim smile. 

One evening he announced to his wife and Madame 
Raquin that he had sent in his resignation, and that he 
should leave his present position on the 15th of the 
month. ThOese looked ver} r uneasy, and he hastened 
to add that he was going to have a studio, where he 
could have a good light and paint all day. 

He said much of the confinement of his clerkship, of 
the noble Future which Art held in store for him, and 
now that he could command a few sous he was deter- 
mined to see if he were not capable of something great. 
This grand tirade simply concealed his frenzied longing 
to resume his old atelier life. 

Therdse sat silent with compressed lips — she did not 
propose that Laurent should waste the little fortune 
that alone secured liberty to herself. When her husband 
turned toward her, and asked several questions in order 
that he might extort from her a consent, she answered 
only in monosyllables — but curt as they were, they 
were sufficient to make him understand that if he 
threw up his clerkship he would gain nothing from her. 

Laurent’s eyes were fixed upon her as she spoke with 
such an expression that the distinct refusal trembling 
on her lips was cut short. She thought she read in 
his face this threat : 

“ If you refuse, I will tell all.” 

She hesitated and stammered some incoherent words. 
Madame Raquin exclaimed in her feeble, quavering 


THEKESE RAQUIN. 


189 


voice, that it was the desire of her heart to see her dear 
son develop his talents, and that to do this, he must 
have all the money he required. 

The poor old lady spoiled Laurent, as she had spoiled 
Camille. She was entirely won over to him by the 
caresses he lavished upon her, and she thought only as 
he desired her to think. It was decided therefore, that 
the artist should take an atelier, and that he should 
receive one hundred francs monthly for his expenses. 
The profits of the shop paid the rent and was, in addi- 
tion, almost enough to defray their daily expenses, and 
Laurent’s hundred francs and the rent of his atelier 
would be paid from the interest of their investments. 
In this way their capital would not be encroached 
upon. 

This arrangement somewhat tranquillized Thdr^se. 
She made her husband swear that under no circustan- 
ces would he exceed the sum she allowed him, and at 
the same time, said to herself that he could in no way 
obtain possession of her forty thousand francs without 
her signature, which she determined never to affix to 
any paper that he should present. 

Early the next morning Laurent hired, at the lower 
end of la Rue Mazarin , a small atelier on which he 
had had his eye for a month. He could not resign his 
clerkship until he had some refuge where he could 
spend his da} r s far from Th6r&se. At the end of a 
fortnight be said farewell to his colleagues. Grivet was 
stupefied by his departure. 


190 


THEKESE EA QUIN. 


“For a young man,” he said, “who had such a 
Future before him, to throw it up in this way, was 
lamentable — truly lamentable. Had he not in four 
years, reached a point where he received a salary such 
as he, Grivet, had not received until he had been in the 
office twenty years ! ” 

Laurent astonished him still more by telling him that 
he intended to devote himself entirely to painting. 

The artist established himself in his atelier . This 
atelier was a sort of garret, some ten yards square ; 
the ceiling inclined abruptly at one end, and in the 
roof was set a large window which admitted a clear, 
white light on the tarnished walls and squalid floor. 
The noise of the street ascended to this height only as a 
distant murmur. The silent room thus lighted from 
above, resembled a hole, or rather a cave, hewed out 
in a lead mine. 

Laurent furnished this attic after a fashion : he 
brought in two dilapidated chairs, a table that he 
placed against the wall to prevent it from falling, an 
old kitchen dresser, his color box and easel. All the 
luxury was concentrated on a large sofa, that he pur- 
chased for thirty francs at a second-hand establishment. 

It was a fortnight before he thought of touching a 
brush to canvas. He entered his studio between eight 
and nine o’clock, threw himself on his sofa where he 
smoked until noon, when he went home to breakfast, 
hurrying back as soon as it was over, in order not to see 
his wife’s pale face. He returned to his dear sofa, 
where he lay until night. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


191 


This atelier was a place where he felt secure. One 
day his wife asked if she should come to visit him. He 
declined the honor. In spite of his refusal, however, 
she came to his door and knocked ; but he made no 
sound, and told her at night that he had spent the day 
out of town. He was afraid that Th^rese would 
bring Camille’s ghost with her. 

Idleness finally began to pall upon him. He bought 
a canvas and colors and went to work. Not having 
money enough to buy models he resolved to paint from 
his imagination, and not trouble himself about Nature. 
He began a man’s head, but he had no intention of 
applying himself closely to his work : he painted two 
or three hours in the morning, and in the afternoon 
lounged about Paris. 

It was on coming home from one of these long 
walks that he encountered, in front of the Institute, 
his old friend, who he had met with a grand success 
at the last Salon. 

“ Hollo ! ” cried the painter ; “ is this really you ? 
Ah ! my poor fellow, I should never have known you, 
had you not spoken to me first. You have grown 
frightfully thin — ” 

“I am married now,” answered Laurent, in an 
embarrassed tone. 

“Married! you! Well then, I am not astonished 
that you are so changed. And what are you doing 
nowadays ? ” 

“I have taken a small atelier . I paint a little in 
the morning.” 


192 


T II £ R E S E RAQUIN. 


Laurent then told the story of his marriage in a very 
few words, and spoke of his projects for the Future 
with feverish haste. 

His friend watched him as he talked with an air of 
astonishment that made him very uneasy. The truth 
was, that the painter found it almost impossible to 
believe that in the husband of Thdrdse, he beheld the 
common-place dullard whom he had formerly known. 
It seemed to him that Laurent’s face was elevated and 
refined — his bright color was toned down, he carried 
himself better and he was much thinner. 

“ You are much better looking than ever before in 
your life,” the artist suddenly exclaimed. “You have 
the air of an ambassador, at the very least. What have 
you been doing with yourself?” 

These words and this minute examination annoyed 
Laurent excessively, but he dared not turn away 
abruptly. 

“ Suppose you come up to my studio for a few min- 
utes,” he finally said to his friend, who answered with 
a ready assent. 

The artist, greatly amazed by the change in his old 
acquaintance, was desirous of visiting his studio, not on 
account of the pictures, for these he well knew would 
simply disgust him, but he was curious to find out 
more about him. 

When the door was thrown open and the artist had 
looked around the walls, his astonishment was greater 
than ever. There were five studies there, two women’s 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


193 


heads, and three of men, painted with great vigor. The 
drawing was good and each touch of the brush told its 
story. The artist examined them in silence, and did 
not attempt to conceal his surprise. 

“ And you painted these ? ” he said to Laurent. 

“ Yes, they are sketches which I shall use in a great 
picture I am planning.” 

“No nonsense now! Did you really paint these 
pictures? ” 

“ Certainly I did. Why should you doubt it?” 

The painter, of course, did not dare to say what he 
thought — though had he spoken he would have said: 

“ Because this work is the work of an artist, and you 
have never been anything more than a bungler.” 

He stood looking at these heads in amazement. 

They were unfinished and crude, but they had an 
originality and a spirit which announced a strongly 
developed artistic sense. The painter who did these 
things had lived. Never had he seen sketches so full of 
promise. Finally he turned toward Laurent: 

“ I must tell you frankly,” he said, “ that I never 
supposed you capable of painting like this. Where the 
deuce did this new talent of yours come from?” 

And he again examined Laurent, whose voice struck 
him as softer, and whose gestures had become those of 
a man of the world; but he, of course, had no idea 
of the terrible shock that had so changed this man, by 
developing his nerves until they assumed all the deli- 
cacy of a woman’s. A strange phenomenon had been 
12 


194 


th£r£se raquin. 


going on in the organism of Camille’s murderer, which 
it is almost impossible for us to analyze. 

Laurent’s artistic temperament had developed in 
proportion to his fears, and in consequence of the 
crushing shock that had overwhelmed him, body and 
soul. Formerly he had been weighed down by the 
superabundance of his flesh and his blood, and was 
blinded by his excess of health. Now, emaciated 
and shivering, he had all the keen susceptibility of 
nervous temperaments. 

In the terrible life he led, his imagination expanded 
into the ecstacy of genius — the malady under which he 
was suffering, the very hallucinations of his mind, 
developed in him an artistic sense. Since he had com- 
mitted his appalling crime, his brain seemed to have 
grown larger as his bodily weight diminished, and in 
his exalted condition he had strange visions and poet- 
ical reveries. It was by reason of this that his manner 
had gained in refinement, and that his works showed 
his developed genius. 

His friend had no clue to this change, and went away 
greatly puzzled. Before he went, however, he exam- 
ined these sketches once more, and said to Laurent : 

“ I have only one fault to find, which is, that all your 
heads have a certain family resemblance. The women 
look like the men in disguise. You must remember 
that if 3^011 intend to work these sketches into a picture, 
you must change them, for they look like brothers.” 

On the stair-case, he stopped again, and said with a 
laugh: 


th£r£se raquin. 


195 


“Upon my word, my boy, it delights me to look at 
you ! The age of miracles is not over after all.” 

He went down stairs, and Laurent returned to his 
atelier greatly disturbed. When his friend had said 
that his heads all bore a family resemblance to each 
other, he had hastily turned away to conceal his pallor. 

This fatal resemblance had not struck him until then. 
He stood first in front of one canvas and then in front 
of another. As he contemplated them, a cold sweat 
broke out on his pale face. 

“He is right,” he murmured; “they all resemble 
each other — they all resemble Camille ! ” 

He seated himself on the sofa, still keeping his eyes 
fixed on these studies. 

The first was that of an old man, with a long, white 
beard ; under this beard the artist saw Camille’s thin, 
narrow chin. The second represented a fair, young 
girl, and this girl looked at him with the blue eyes of 
his victim. The three other heads had each some one 
feature of Camille, and all resembled each other — all 
had a startled, shocked expression, as if each felt the 
same sensation of horror. Each had a line in the left 
corner of the mouth, slightly drawing down the lips. 
This line Laurent remembered to have seen on the 
drawn face of the drowning man, and it now struck 
him as a sign of the relationship between all these faces. 

He began to think that he had looked at Camille too 
long when he lay at the Morgue, and now his very 
hand had unconsciously traced the lines of this face, 
which would haunt him always and forever. 


196 


therJse PvAQUIN. 


By degrees this painter, who had thrown himself at 
full length on the sofa, began to fancy that these 
figures were animated. There were five Camilles 
before him — five Camilles created by his own hand. 
He started up, snatched his palette knife and cutting 
the sketches into strips, threw them out of the window, 
saying to himself that he should die of terror if he 
peopled this room with portraits of his victim. 

A great fear now haunted him. He doubted if he 
should ever be able to draw another head which would 
not be that of the dead man. He determined at once 
to ascertain if he were master of his hand. He placed 
a fresh canvas on his easel, and with a crayon hastily 
drew a face. This face was that of Camille. Laurent 
rubbed it out hastily and made another attempt. For 
an hour he struggled with the fatality that governed 
his hand. In vain did he exert his will ; notwithstand- 
ing all his efforts, he traced the same lines he knew so 
well. He obeyed his muscles and the contractions of 
the nerves in his fingers. 

His first attempts were made hastily. His next with 
great slowness and infinite pains ; but the result was 
invariably the same — it was Camille’s face that stared 
out at him. He sketched head after head — that of a 
Madonna, of a Roman warrior wearing a helmet, then 
of a child, and another of a scarred and sun-burned 
bandit — but Camille was in them, one and all; he was 
by turns, Madonna, warrior, child, and bandit. 

Then Laurent tried caricatures — exaggerated every 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


197 


feature and drew enormous profiles — succeeding only 
in rendering more horrible than before the striking 
portraits of his victim. 

He then drew animals — cats and dogs — and these 
creatures too looked like Camille. 

Laurent was transported with rage. He struck the 
canvas a blow with his fist, and thought in despair of 
his great picture which was to make his name famous. 
He saw that he must give up the idea, for he knew that 
if the faces were so much alike, his picture would be 
laughed at. He saw his completed work before him, 
and on the shoulders of each figure in it the pale, 
startled face of Camille. 

After this, he dared paint no more. He did not 
choose to resuscitate his victim with his brush. If he 
wished to live in peace in this atelier , it must be on 
condition that he should burn his brushes. The 
thought that his fingers had the fatal and unconscious 
faculty of reproducing to an unlimited degree Camille’s 
features, made him look down on his hand with terror. 
It seemed to him that this hand could not be his own. 


198 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

TENDER DEVOTION. 

T HE crisis with which Madame Raquin was menaced 
now declared itself. The paralysis which for 
some months had been lurking in her system, now 
grasped her by the throat. One evening when she was 
talking calmly with Therese and Laurent, she stopped 
in the middle of a sentence with a gasp as if she were 
strangling. When she tried to speak, she could utter 
only a hoarse sound. Her tongue was like stone, and 
both feet were stiff. 

Therese and her husband were thunderstruck at the 
sight. The piteous eyes asked them why she was thus 
stricken, and they could only reply with questions 
which she could not answer. 

By degrees they comprehended that before them was 
only a body, a body that could see and hear but which 
could never again speak. This conclusion drove them 
to despair ; they thought less of her than they did of 
themselves, and their tears were shed not for Madame 
Raquin, but at the thought that they must now live 
without her voice to break the monotony of their 
tete-^rtete. 

From this day there was not the smallest alleviation 
in the lives of this wretched pair. They passed the 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


199 


most cruel evenings watching over this poor old crea- 
ture, who could no longer alleviate their terror by her 
gentle babble. She lay in her arm-chair, helpless and 
silent, and they sat with the table between them, 
uneasy and embarrassed. At times they forgot that 
this body which had been Madame Raquin was there, 
they regarded it as a part of the furniture of the room. 
Then all at once, the terrors that had hitherto assailed 
them only at night, pervaded this dining room, which 
was haunted by Camille. Their only comfort was 
when they saw Madame Raquin’s eyes move from one 
of their faces to the other. This prevented them from 
feeling that they were alone with each other. 

They placed the lamp close by her side, that they 
might see her better, and yet to others she would have 
been a most depressing sight, but they felt such a cra- 
ving for her companionship that they looked upon her 
with positive joy. When her eyes were closed in sleep 
she looked as if she were dead, and then Th^rese 
would make some sudden noise, which would compel 
the poor creature to turn her eyes upon them. They 
would not allow her to sleep. 

The constant care she required aroused them from 
their reveries. In the morning Laurent carried her in 
his arms to her chair, and in the evening he bore her 
back to her bed. She was very heavy, and it required 
all his strength to carry her to and fro. It was he too, 
who rolled her in her chair across the room. All other 
duties fell to the share of ThdrSse. She dressed her 


/ 


200 


TIIERESE RAQUIN. 


aunt and fed her, and tried to comprehend her wishes. 
For some few days Madame Raquin was able to write 
on a slate, but soon her hands lost their power. She 
could not hold a pencil between the stiffened fingers, 
and she could now express her wishes only by her eyes, 
and these her niece learned to read. Th^rese devoted 
herself to her, and the occupation of mind and body 
did her a world of good. 

Laurent rolled the old lady’s chair in the morning 
from her room to the dining room, because he did not 
choose to be alone with Thdrdse. They both deter- 
mined that she should be present at their meals, and 
pretended not to understand when she signified her 
wish to remain in her own room. She was required to 
break up their tete-5rtete — she had no right to live 
apart from them. 

At eight o’clock Laurent went to his studio, Thdr^se 
to the shop below, leaving her aunt alone until twelve 
o’clock. Then, after breakfast, she was alone again 
for five or six hours. Several times during the day the 
niece went up to see that her aunt required nothing. 
The friends of the family had no words in which to 
praise the virtues of ThdrSse and Laurent. 

The Thursday receptions continued, at which 
Madame Raquin was present. Her chair was drawn 
up to the table, and her weary eyes examined first one 
and then another of the players, with keen interest. 
The first Thursday that old Michaud and Grivet saw 
their old friend thus struck down, they were disturbed 


TIIERESE EAQUIN. 


201 


and embarrassed. They did not feel any especial grief 
and were not quite sure how much they ought to feign, 
or how to conduct themselves. 

Should they go up to this inanimate body and say 
good evening? or should they take no notice of her? 
Finally, they came to the conclusion to pretend that 
nothing had happened. They talked with her, utter- 
ing both questions and replies, laughing for her and 
for themselves, and were never disturbed by her 
unchanging face. 

It was a singular sight; these men seemed to be 
talking to a statue, as little girls talk to their dolls. 

Michaud and Grivet were quite proud of their good 
manners, for they felt that Madame Raquin must be 
gratified at being treated as if in perfect health, and it 
was more agreeable to themselves to do this, than to 
offer condolences and put on dismal faces. 

Grivet was possessed with the notion that he under- 
stood everv flicker of Madame Raquin’s ej r elids, and 
that she could not look at him without his knowing 
what she desired. But Grivet was not alwaj'S correct 
in this opinion, for he would often interrupt the game, 
and declare that the old lady, who was quietly watch- 
ing the game, wanted this thing or another. But his 
repeated mistakes did not discourage the good man, 
who uttered his victorious “Didn’t I tell you so?” 

When the sick woman really had a positive desire, 
it was very different. Thdr&se, Laurent and the guests 
one by one named the things she was likely to want, 


202 


TH^EESE RAQUIK. 


and Grivet was conspicuous by the awkwardness of his 
suggestions. He mentioned anything that came into 
his head, and invariably offered the opposite of that 
which was required. This did not prevent him from 
saying, however, 

“ I told you so ! I read her eyes like a book ! Now 
look at her, dear lady! she says I am right. Yes, 
dear, yes ! ” 

It was by no means an easy thing to seize the wishes 
of the invalid. Th^rese alone had this power., She 
easily communicated with this dumb intelligence, 
imprisoned in this torpid body. What was going on 
within these fleshly walls? She saw, she heard, she 
probably reasoned, and yet she could not lift a finger 
nor her voice to express the thoughts born within her 
spirit. 

She could have done no more than she did had the 
destinies of the world depended on it. Her mind was 
like a living creature buried by mistake six feet under 
ground. They struggled and cried out, but the very 
persons who walked over their graves heard no sound. 
Sometimes Laurent looked at Madame Raquin's com- 
pressed lips, at her nerveless hands lying on her lap, 
at her eyes, which alone evinced any life, and he said 
to himself: 

“ Who can tell what she is thinking ? Perhaps she 
is unhappy.” 

But no, Laurent was mistaken, Madame Raquin 
was content, content in the care and affection of her 


THEIl^SE RAQUIN. 


203 


children. She had always dreamed of her days ending 
in this way, amid devotion and caressess — only she 
had always hoped to preserve the power of speech, that 
she might thank them for their devotion. But she 
accepted her destiny meekly, and without rebellion. 
The peaceful, retired existence she had always led, 
prevented her from feeling too acutely her present 
helplessness. She was an infant once more, content to 
lie and look about her. 

Her eyes grew softer and their glances more and 
more penetrating. She managed them in such a way 
that they spoke almost as plainly as her lips might 
have done. Her face acquired an almost celestial 
beauty — her eyes smiled while her lips were rigid, 
and the effect was most singular and irrepressibly 
touching. 

When at night, Laurent lifted her in his strong 
arms, her eyes expressed the most tender gratitude. 

She lived in this way for some weeks, waiting for 
death, believing she had nothing more to suffer in this 
world, but she was mistaken. One evening she was 
crushed by a fearful blow. 

Laurent and ThdrSse, as we have said, arranged the 
light so that it fell full on the chair of the invalid, but 
it was all in vain; she was not sufficiently alive to 
protect them against their despair. They finally for- 
got her presence, their madness returned, and with it 
Camille; they talked aloud, uttered broken exclama- 
tions, murmured avowals, which finally revealed all 


204 


TH^RESE RAQUIK. 


to Madame Raquin. Laurent had an attack of the 
nerves during which he raved like a madman, and the 
old lady understood him. A frightful spasm passed 
over her face — and she shivered from head to foot. 
Ther£se, who was looking at her, believed for a moment 
that she was about to speak — but she relapsed into the 
rigidity of iron. Her eyes, which had been so sweet, 
became black and hard like metal. 

The sinister truth flashed like lightning into the 
heart of the poor paralytic. Could she have risen and 
denounced the assassins of her son, could she have 
cursed them, she would have suffered less. But, after 
hearing all, understanding all, she was compelled to 
remain motionless. It seemed to her as if Th^rese 
and her husband had tied her to her chair to prevent 
her from proclaiming their crime to the world, and that 
they took pleasure in crying in her ear, “We have 
killed Camille ! we have killed Camille ! ” after having 
placed a gag between her teeth. She made the most 
superhuman efforts to lift the weight that crushed her. 
Her sensations were like those of a man who, having 
swooned, is supposed to be dead, and who awakes from 
his lethargy in time to hear the earth thrown upon his 
coffin lid. 

The insufferable ache of her heart was worse still. 
Her heart was broken ; all that made life tolerable to 
her — all the care and devotion of which she was the 
recipient came from these two persons, and now in her 
last hours she discovered that they were cowards and 


TH^EESE EAQCIK. 


205 


criminals. The vail was torn away that had mercifully 
hidden the crime and the shame — she was ready to 
curse God and die. Why had He not permitted her to 
die in ignorance of this shameful secret? 

After the first shock, the monstrosity of the crime 
seemed to make it incredible. She wondered if she 
had been dreaming; then by degrees the connection 
between the murder and the infidelity of Thdrese 
established itself. She remembered a thousand circum- 
stances, unnoticed at the time. 

Thdrese and Laurent had murdered Camille — 
Thdrese, whom she had brought up — Laurent, whom 
she had treated as a son. These ideas rolled over and 
over in her poor bewildered head, with a noise that 
deafened her. She wished she could die and be at 
rest. She repeated to herself, with sad persistency, 
“ My children killed my son ! ” 

A sudden change took place within her. She was 
transformed into a pitiless being eager for vengeance. 
When she realized that she could do nothing, tears 
slowly gathered in her eyes and fell, one by one, on her 
withered hands. 

Thdrese was moved by startled pity. 

“ She must go to bed,” she said to Laurent. 

He at once rolled her into her sleeping room, then 
stooped to take her in his arms. The poor soul called 
on Heaven to help her. Surely, God in Heaven would 
not permit Laurent to press her in his arms. She 
expected him to be stricken to the ground with a 


206 


th£r£se raquin. 


thunderbolt from Heaven. But Heaven reserved its 
thunderbolts. She lay a dead weight, in the arms of 
the man who had murdered Camille. Her head rolled 
helplessly over on Laurent’s shoulder, and her eyes, 
full of horror, looked full into his. 

“Yes, look at me as much as you please,” he mut- 
tered ; “ your eyes cannot kill me.” 

He laid her on the bed, but she had fainted. 


THlSRiSE RAQUIN. 


207 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

THE AVENGING HAND. 

N uncontrollable impulse alone liad induced 



A Laurent and Th£r&se to make these avowals in 
the presence of Madame Raquin. They were neither 
of them cruel by nature; they would have avoided 
such a revelation from humanity alone, even if their 
safety had not been involved. The following Thurs- 
day they were singularly uneasy. In the morning 
Thdrdse had asked Laurent if he thought it best to 
allow her aunt to remain in the dining-room that 
evening. She knew all, and she might in some way 
give a hint to others. 

“ Nonsense,” answered Laurent, “ she can’t even lift 
her finger. How can she chatter ? ” 

“ She may do something, however,” answered 
Thdrese; “I have read in her eyes an implacable 
desire for vengeance.” 

“No — the physician told me all was over with her. 
If she speaks again it will be in her last moments. 
She has not long to live, and we don’t wish to have 
another sin on our consciences.” 

Th6r£se shuddered. 

“ You have not understood me ! ” she cried. “ Oh ! 
you are right — there has been blood enough shed. I 


208 


THEUESE II A Q L T I X . 


only meant to say that we can shut her into her room 
and say that she is worse or that she is asleep.” 

“Yes, and Michaud will enter her room to see for 
himself how his old friend may be. You could not 
select a better way of ruining us ! ” 

He checked himself — he wished to appear very calm, 
but anxiety took away his breath. 

“ Let things take their course,” he said ; “ these 
people are perfect geese ; they won’t question the old 
lady. How can they when they have not the smallest 
suspicion to guide them? No — let everything be as 
usual.” 

That evening, when the guests arrived, Madame 
Raquin in her chair occupied her usual place between 
the stove and the table. Laurent and his wife pre- 
tended to be in the best of spirits, but their hearts 
were sick with anxiety. They had pulled the shade of 
the lamp so low that only the oil cloth cover of the 
table was lighted. 

The guests were at the end of the senseless babble 
with which the first game of dominos was played. 
Grivet and Michaud had addressed to the paralytic 
their usual questions in regard to her health, questions 
to which they themselves replied, as a matter of course. 
After this they paid no further heed to the old lady 
but devoted themselves to their game. 

Madame Raquin, from the hour in which she had 
learned this terrible secret, had looked forward with 
impatience to this evening. She had gathered together 


TIIERESE RAQUIN. 


209 


all her remaining strength, hoping that she might be 
able to denounce the murderers. Up to the last 
moment she feared that Laurent would kill her, or, 
at all ^events, keep her in her room. When she saw 
that she was to be allowed to remain in the salon, and 
when the guests came in, she was thrilled with joy. 
Knowing that she could not speak, she invented a new 
language. With a strength of will that was most ama- 
zing she lifted her right hand from her knee where it 
lay inertly; then supporting it on the table leg she 
finally succeeded in placing it on the cloth, and then 
feebly moved the fingers in order to attract attention. 

When the players perceived this white hand they 
were greatly amazed. Grivet stopped with his hand 
in the air just as he was about to bring down the 
double six. Since her attack, Madame Raquin had not 
moved her hands. 

“Look at that, ThdrSse ! ” cried Michaud; “your 
aunt wants something.” 

Th^rdse could not speak; she, as well as Laurent, 
had watched the paralytic — her eyes were fixed on 
her aunt’s hand as on the hand of an avenger. The 
two murderers waited breathlessly. 

“Yes,” said Grivet, “she wants something. Ah! 
we two comprehend each other perfectly. She wants 
to play dominos — is not that it, dear lady?” 

Madame Raquin made a sign of denial. She 
stretched out one finger and then another, and with 
13 


210 


THBEBSE RAQUIX. 


immense difficulty traced out some letters on the table. 
Grivet cried out : 

“ I see ; she wants me to put down the double six.” 

Madame Raquin turned her eyes upon him with a 
look of stilled anger, and began the word again. But 
each moment Grivet interrupted, saying that he under- 
stood. Michaud begged him to be quiet. 

“Why can’t you let Madame Raquin speak?” he 
said ; “ go on, my old friend, go on.” 

And he bent down over the table in the same way 
that he would have turned his ear to hear the inva- 
lid speak. But the fingers of the old lady were 
weary, they had begun one word more than ten 
times, and could do no more. 

Michaud and Olivier, being unable to understand, 
had compelled her to repeat the first letters. 

“ I see it ! ” cried Olivier, suddenly ; “ I understand 
now. She is writing your name, Th^rese. Look — 
‘ThdrSse and — ’ Go on, dear lady.” 

Th^rese was dumb with fear. She watched the 
fingers of her aunt glide over the shining table cover, 
and it seemed to her that these fingers traced her name 
and the crime she had committed in letters of fire. 
Laurent started to his feet, ready to snatch the old 
woman’s hand from the table. He believed that all 
was lost, and felt that his punishment was near, since 
this palsied hand had revived to reveal his crime. 

Madame Raquin continued to move her fingers, but 
with less vigor. 


T II E R E S E II A Q U I H . 


211 


“I can read what she means perfectly,” said Olivier, 
turning to look at the husband and wife. “ Your aunt 
is writing your names — ‘ThdrSse and Laurent.’/’ 

The old lady signified that he was right by looking 
up at him with gratitude in her eyes. Then she tried 
to finish her task, but her fingers were stiff — the will 
that had galvanized them was now vanquished. With 
one mighty effort she added one word: 

44 Th^rdse and Laurent have — ” 

And Olivier said, cheerfully: 

44 What have these dear children ? ” 

The murderers, in their wild terror, came near finish- 
ing the sentence aloud. They glared down on this 
avenging hand with wild eyes, when all at once this 
hand began to tremble convulsively and slipped help- 
lessly from the table, falling a dead weight on the knee 
of the unhappy woman. 

Michaud and Olivier sat down, greatly disappointed, 
while Thdrdse and Laurent felt such a revulsion that 
their knees trembled under them, while their faces 
flushed with joy at their escape. 

Grivet was vexed that he had not been able to 
inform the circle of what Madame llaquin wished to 
say, but determined to make one other attempt. He 
sat with frowning brow, thinking over this incom- 
pleted phrase. 

44 It is perfectly plain,” he said at last. 44 1 myself 
do not require that she should write on a table. A 
look from her is quite enough, but since she has seen 


212 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


fit to make her wishes known in this way, I will tell 
you what she intended to say. She wished to say 
simply, ‘ Th^rese and Laurent have taken the best care 
of me.’ ” 

Grivet was quite pleased with his divination, particu- 
larly as all the others agreed with him. They immedi- 
ately joined in a eulogy on the husband and wife who 
had been so devoted to the poor lady. 

“It is clear,” said old Michaud, gravely, “that 
Madame Raquin was eager to tell us all how tender 
and loving her children had been. Their conduct 
honors the whole family.” 

And he added, as he took up his dominos : 

“Now let us go on with our game. Where were 
we? Grivet was about to play a double-six, I believe.” 

Grivet played the double-six, and the game went on. 

Madame Raquin looked down despairingly on the 
hand that had betrayed her. It was now as heavy as 
lead ; she could never raise it again. Heaven did not 
allow her to avenge Camille, and had withdrawn from 
the desolate mother, her only method of making known 
to men the crime of which he had been the victim. 
She asked God to take her to Himself, and with closed 
eyes prayed to be laid in the earth beside her son. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


213 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


RECRIMINATION. 



OR three months Thdrdse had been the wife of 


Laurent. They began their married life with 
mutual repugnance. They suffered acutely through 
each other for this length of time, and then they began 
to hate each other, and when they met it was with 
angry, threatening eyes. 

They knew that each was a terror to the other. 
Each said that were the other out of the way, life 
would be different — they might lead a tranquil exist- 
ence were they not always face to face. 

One single thought gnawed at their hearts; they 
were irritated that they had committed such a useless 
crime. They asked themselves, over and over again, 
why they did the deed that would never cease to 
trouble their lives. This was what caused them to 
hate each other with such intense bitterness. They 
knew that the evil was incurable, and that until the 
day of their death they must continue to suffer, and 
that idea exasperated them beyond endurance. 

They were not willing to admit even to themselves 
that their marriage was the punishment of their crime, 
they refused to hear that interior voice which told 
them this truth, and pitilessly recounted the history of 


214 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


their lives, and }^et they knew it well. They looked 
back into the Past. They recalled their determination 
to clutch happiness at any price, and they knew that 
disappointment alone had caused them to feel any 
remorse. Had they been able to live in slothful 
content they would never have dreamed of regret- 
ting their deed. But this was not the case, and they 
asked themselves with terror to what length their 
hatred and disgust might not carry them. They saw, 
stretching before them, a long Future of pain, and a 
sinister and violent denouement. Comprehending that 
they could never escape from their bondage, and that 
each hour only added to their sufferings, they addressed 
the most violent reproaches one to another, and in their 
vehement efforts to staunch the wounds they felt — 
they added to them and aggravated them. 

Each evening some new quarrel burst forth. It 
seemed as if these two guilty creatures took every 
occasion to exasperate each other. They lived, conse- 
quently, in a state of continual contention, and would 
not submit to a word, a look or gesture, without an 
explosion. 

Thus by degrees their whole natures were prepared 
for some act of violence. The slightest impatience, 
the most ordinary contradiction became an insult, 
and they hastened to recriminate. A mere noth- 
ing raised a storm that lasted until the next day. 
A dish that was not well cooked, an open window, a 
simple observation drove them both to behavior which 
a looker-on would have regarded as that of a maniac. 


THEKESE RAQUIN. 


215 


They threw their crime in each other’s face. These 
scenes were horrible — their words more so. It was 
after dinner that these quarrels generally took place in 
the dining-room. There they could say what they 
pleased without being heard in the street, and did not 
cease until they were absolutely worn out. These 
quarrels were their only way of gaining sleep by sooth- 
ing their nerves. 

Madame Raquin listened to them, for she was always 
there, her head leaning against the chair back and her 
face like marble. She heard and understood every 
word, and not a shudder shook her torpid body. Her 
eyes were fixed on the murderers with keen intelli- 
gence. Her martyrdom was atrocious. In this way, 
she learned, detail by detail, each fact which had 
preceded and followed Camille’s murder, and under- 
stood the atrocities of these persons whom she had 
called her “ dear children.” 

These quarrels left nothing to her imagination, but 
brought up before her, with frightful and vivid circum- 
stantiality, the whole horrible scene. When she 
thought she had no more of this infamy to hear, she 
always found there had been some one detail left 
untold, and each evening she heard the whole recapitu- 
lated. She lived — if her existence could be called 
living: — in an unending: dream of horror. The first 
avowal had been brutal and crushing, but she suffered 
more afterward from these repeated blows — from the 
small particulars which the husband and wife dropped 


216 


THflRESE RAQUIN. 


amid their quarrels. At least once each day, the poor 
mother heard the recital of her son’s assassination, and 
each time the story was more frightful, and the details 
were given with more circumstantiality. 

Sometimes, Th^rese was seized with remorse as she 
looked at this white, drawn face, down which great 
tears silently stole. She pointed to her aunt, and 
implored Laurent to be silent. 

44 Hold your own tongue ! ” he answered, brutally. 
44 You know very well that she will have to hear this 
as long as she lives. Do you think I am any happier 
than she? We have her money though, that is one 
comfort ! ” 

And the quarrel continued. Neither Laurent nor 
Th^rese dared to yield to the impulse of pity which 
occasionally came to them to leave the old lady in her 
room, and keep her from hearing these quarrels, for 
they were afraid they should murder each other were 
she not there. 

Their compassion yielded before this cowardice, and 
they continued to inflict on Madame Raquin these 
incredible sufferings because they needed her presence. 

All their disputes were similar, and led to the same 
accusations. As soon as Camille’s name was pro- 
nounced, each accused the other as his murderer. 

One evening, at dinner, Laurent looking for some 
subject on which to vent his irritation, complained that 
the water in the carafe was warm, that tepid water 
always made him sick, and bade his wife get some 
other. 


TH&IiESE RAQUIN. 217 

“I cannot afford to buy ice,” answered Thdr£se, 
coldly. 

“Very well, I can’t drink this,” said Laurent. 

“It is excellent, nevertheless.” 

“It is muddy and it is warm. I believe it came 
from the river.” 

Th^rese repeated with a gasp : 

“ From the river ! ” 

And she burst into tears. A singular connection of 
ideas was going on in her mind. 

“ Why do you weep ? ” sneered Laurent. 

He knew very well what her reply would be. 

“I weep,” sobbed his wife, “ I weep — because — . 
You know very well why I weep. My God! Ah! God, 
why did you allow this man to murder Camille ? ” 

“I murder him!” cried Laurent, violently. “You 
lie! You know very well that if I threw him into the 
Seine it was because you drove me to it! ” 

“ I ? I drove you to it ? ” 

“ Yes, you ! Don’t put on those airs. You shall 
admit your own share in the murder, for to hear you 
say it, would in some degree comfort me.” 

“But I did not drown Camille.” 

“ You did, I say. You need not feign surprise. You 
remember just what happened. I said to you in a 
whisper, ‘ I shall throw him into the river.’ You made 
no objection, and you entered the boat. Surely, you 
remember just what happened. Wait, I will tell you. 

He pushed back his chair and leaned towards his 


218 


THE RES E BAQUIN. 

wife, and with inflamed face and violent gestures he 
shouted: 

“ You were standing on the shore, and I said in your 
ear, ‘ I shall throw him in the water.’ I remember 
the very words, ‘ I shall throw him in the water.’ You 
did not answer but stepped into the boat. Now, won’t 
you admit that you committed the murder?” 

“No, I will not. I was mad. I did not know what 
I was doing. I never wished to kill him. It was you, 
and you alone, who committed the crime.” 

These asseverations irritated Laurent beyond endu- 
rance. As he had said, the idea of having an accom- 
plice was a relief to him — he would have attempted, 
had he dared, to prove that the responsibility of the 
murder must rest on Th^rSse. 

He was tempted to beat her until she confessed that 
she was the most guilty. 

He walked up and down the room in a frenzy of 
rage, followed by Madame Raquin’s fixed gaze. 

“Wretch ! ” he gasped. “ Wretch that you are, you 
will make me mad. Did you not come into my room 
one evening like an infamous creature, and did you 
not bewilder me by your caresses, until I was ready to 
murder your husband, or do anything else you wanted 
me to do. He was disagreeable and sickly, you said, 
and you had told me so before whenever I came to 
visit you. I never thought of hurting a fly, much less 
of committing a murder until you put it into my head.” 

“ It was you who killed Camille,” repeated Thdrese, 


T II E R E S E EAQUIN. 


219 


with stolid obstinacy, which was more than Laurent 
could bear. He went up to her and took her by the 
shoulder with one hand, while he shook the other in 
her face. 

“ No, it was you ! it was you ! Come now, stop all 
this, or you will come to grief. Do you remember how 
you invited me to your room, how you told me that 
you hated Camille, and confess, now, and be done wiih 
it, that you meant to kill Camille in some way or 
another, and that you only used me as an instrument ! 
Confess this, I tell you ! ” 

“No, I will not, for every word you say is false, and 
you are the last man in the world who ought to 
reproach me for my weakness. I was a good woman 
before I knew you. I never had a thought which I 
was ashamed to acknowledge. We must not dispute, 
Laurent, for I have too much to reproach you with.” 

“ What have you ? ” 

“Nothing. I will not speak again. Yes, one thing 
I will say. You are a man. You should have pro- 
tected me against myself, but it pleased you to enter 
my life and desolate it. I forgive you for that, but in 
Heaven’s name, do not accuse me of having killed 
Camille. The crime was yours, and you shall not 
compel me to admit any share in it.” 

Laurent lifted his hand to strike Therese in the face. 

She did not flinch. 

“ Yes, strike me,” she said. “ I wish you would. I 
think I should suffer less — ” 


220 


THiSRESE RAQUINi 


His hand dropped. He drew up a chair and seated 
himself opposite his wife, and in a voice that he vainly 
essayed to render calm, he said : 

“Listen to me. You are a miserable, sneaking 
coward, if you refuse to accept a portion of the respon- 
sibility of this crime. You know perfectly well that 
we committed it together, and you have no right to 
separate yourself from it in this way. Why will you 
make my burthen heavier for me by insisting upon 
your own innocence? Had you been innocent, you 
would never have consented to marry me. Do you 
remember the two years following? Do you wish 
to test this question? I will go to the Procureur 
Imperiale , and you will see if we are not both 
condemned ! ” 

Both shuddered from head to foot, and Thdrdse 
replied : 

“ Men may condemn me, but Camille well knows 
that I did not kill him. He does not torture me at 
night as he tortures you.” 

“ Camille lets me sleep now,” answered Laurent, pale 
and trembling. “ It is you he visits. I have heard 
you cry out in your sleep.” 

“ You shall not say that,” answered his wife angrily. 
“It is to you he comes — not to me ! I am innocent ! 
I am innocent ! ” 

They looked around the room in terror. They 
feared lest they had summoned the spectre. Their 
quarrels always ended in this way. By these protesta- 
tions of innocence they hoped to deceive themselves 


THERESE EAQUIN. 


221 


to such a degree that they might hope for a night’s 
rest. Each made constant effort to throw the respon- 
sibility of the crime from his own shoulders to those of 
his partner in iniquity. They defended themselves as 
eagerly as if they stood before Judge and Jury, while 
at the same time taunting each other with the atrocity 
of the murder. 

The strangest thing of all was, that they were never 
once duped by their own words, that they both remem- 
bered perfectly all the circumstances of their acts. 
Their falsehoods were puerile, their affirmations ridicu- 
lous, the mere wordy dispute of two wretches who lied 
for the sake of lying, and were unable to conceal that 
they lied. 

Each in turn played the role of accuser, and 
although their arguments led to no result, they began 
the same thing again every evening. They knew that 
nothing they could say would prove anything, that they 
could never wipe out the Past, and } 7 et they devoted 
themselves to their useless task — -coming back to the 
charge with apparent vigor, while in reality their hearts 
were heavy with the knowledge that their efforts were 
useless. 

The only advantage they derived from these disputes 
was the noise and tempest of words that prevented 
thought for the moment. 

And while they raved the invalid watched them 
and her eyes were filled with a lurid joy when she saw 
Laurent lift his heavy hand. 

She hoped he would fell ThSrSse to the ground. 


222 


THEIIESE It A Q U I N . 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THERESE KISSES HER AUNT. 

NEW phase now declared itself. Th^rese, mad 



jA with fear, her nerves all unstrung, began to weep 
for Camille in Laurent’s presence. 

She was greatly changed. Her hard nature had 
softened, and when she had struggled several months 
against the fears evoked by the haunting presence of 
Camille, she suddenly collapsed — her strength was 
gone. She was no longer the fierce, willful creature 
whom Laurent had known. She became again a gentle 
woman, who wept with horror over the Past, and in 
this woe and in her repentance hoped to find relief. 
She hoped that the spectre would be touched by these 
tears. It will be seen, therefore, that her remorse was, 
after all, the result of calculation, for she said to her- 
self, that it was her best and only method of appeasing 
Camille. 

Like certain devotees who think to deceive God and 
extort His pardon by praying with their lips, and by 
assuming a penitential attitude, Th6r£se struck her 
breast, and asked forgiveness, when in reality she had 
no other sentiment in her heart than fear, and dread of 
further punishment. It was a great solace to her, 
moreover, to feel that she offered no further resistance, 
but abandoned herself to sorrow. 


She overwhelmed Madame Raquin with her tearful 
despair, the old lady was regarded by her niece as a 
prie-Dieu , a piece of furniture, before which she, with- 
out fear or shame, could avow her faults and implore 
pardon. As soon as she felt that she must relieve her 
overladen heart by weeping, she knelt by the side 
of Madame Raquin’s chair, and there moaned and 
writhed, acting a scene of remorse which relieved her 
and left her utterly exhausted. 

“ I am a miserable wretch,” she stammered, “ I merit 
no mercy. I have deceived you — it was I who drove 
your son to his death. You will never forgive me, 
and yet if you could realize the remorse now tugging 
at my heart-strings, if you knew what I was suffering, 
you would pity me. I could die at your feet in my 
shame and my agony.” 

She spoke in this way for hours, passing from des- 
pair to hope — condemning and then forgiving herself. 

Her voice was that of a little girl, sometimes plain- 
tive and sometimes very sweet. 

Sometimes she forgot that she was kneeling by 
Madame Raquin, and continued her monologue in a 
sort of dream. When she had stunned herself with 
her own words she rose, and with faltering, unsteady 
steps, went down to the shop without fear lest she 
should burst into tears before one of her customers. 

When remorse stung her again she would hurry up 
stairs and repeat the same scene, at the feet of her 
aunt. 


224 


TH&RESE EAQUIN. 


Th<3r£se never thought that these tears and this 
display of her penitence was an additional affliction to 
her aunt. The truth was, if she had tried with all her 
power to invent another agony for the poor old lady, 
she could have succeeded no better than by this 
comedy of remorse. 

The poor creature divined the selfishness concealed 
under this display of woe. These long monologues 
caused her the most intense suffering, as they brought 
before her -Camille’s assassination more vividly than 
ever. She, athirst for vengeance, could not forgive the 
wretched woman, and yet all day long these entreaties 
for pardon, these humble prayers rang in her ears. 
She longed to reply, but she could not, nor could she 
put her hands to her ears and insist on silence. 

Sometimes she asked herself if these two wretches 
were not cowardly enough to inflict this agony inten- 
tionally. Her only means of defence was to close 
her eyes when Th^rese sank on her knees at her 
side. She could at least avoid seeing if not hearing 
her. 

Th^rese at last became so bold that she kissed her 
aunt. One day after one of these spasms of repent- 
ance, she pretended to read a look of compassion in 
the eyes of the invalid. She dragged herself up from 
the floor and exclaimed : 

“You forgive me!' you forgive me! I see that 
you do ! ” 

Then she kissed the brow and cheeks of Madame 
Kaquin, who could not turn her head away. 


TnflRESE RAQUIN. 


225 


ThdrSse was startled by the marble coldness which 
her lips encountered, and she said to herself that this 
would be another excellent way of soothing the irri- 
tation of her nerves, and therefore persisted in kissing 
her aunt a dozen times during the day. 

“ Oh ! how good you are ! ” she would say. “ I see 
that my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full 
of pity. I understand!’’ 

And she held her head on the lap of the old lad}', 
kissed her hands and overwhelmed her with kind 
^attentions. Madame Raquin was kept all the time in 
a state of rage. The kisses of her niece awoke in her 
the same feelings that she had when Laurent took her 
in his arms to lay her in her bed. She was obliged to 
submit to the caresses of this worthless woman who 
had killed her son. She could not even wipe away 
the kisses imprinted by this creature on her cheek. 
Hour after hour she felt these kisses scorching her 
flesh. 

She was a doll whom these people dressed and 
undressed, put to bed and took up just as they pleased. 
She felt insulted by the atrocious mockery of her 
niece, who pretended to read forgiveness and compas- 
sion in her eyes, when those eyes expressed only horror 
and desire for revenge. 

But Therdse, who found infinite satisfaction in 
saying twenty times each day, that she was forgiven, 
showered kisses and caresses upon her, with greater 
effusion than ever. 

14 


226 


T II E Fw E S E RAQUIN. 


When Laurent came in and found his wife kneeling 
by the side of her aunt, he took two rapid strides to 
her side, and pulling her up fiercely from the floor, he 
would say : 

“ None of this acting ! Do you see me guilty of 
such nonsense? You do this only to worry me ! ” 

The remorse of his wife troubled him strangely. 
His sufferings were redoubled by seeing his accomplice 
wander about the house with trembling lips and eyes 
swollen with tears. Her woe added to his -terror. She 
was to him an eternal reproach, and he began to fear 
that his wife’s penitence would impel her some day 
to reveal all. He would have preferred her threats 
and sarcasms, against which he could have defended 
himself far better. But she had changed her tactics 
entirely, and now admitted freely that she had 
participated in the crime. She covered herself with 
accusations, she was timid and gentle, and entreated 
him to pray for pardon at her side. 

Her manner and words were altogether intolerable 
to Laurent, and their quarrels became more serious and 
vindictive than ever. 

“ We are very guilty,” said Th6r&se to her husband. 
“We must repent, if we wish for any peace. Now 
that I have found relief in tears, I am at ease to a 
great extent. Follow my example; let us say together 
that we are justly punished for having committed an 
awful crime ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” answered Laurent, roughly. “ Speak for 


227 


THERESE RAQUIN. 

yourself, if you please. I know well that you are an 
accomplished hypocrite. Weep, if it amuses you to do 
so — but for heaven’s sake, keep your tears out of my 
sight ! ” 

“Ah! you are thoroughly bad after all. You were 
mean too, and you betrayed Camille’s confidence.” 

“ Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty ? ” 

“ No, I don’t mean to say any thing of the kind. I 
am guilty — more guilty than yourself, even. I ought 
to have saved my husband from your treacherous 
hands. 

“ Oh ! I know the length and breadth of my crime, 
but I try to repent. I ask for forgiveness, and shall 
receive it sooner or later. Haven’t you heart enough 
to spare my poor aunt all these dreadful scenes ? And 
can you not make up your mind to express your regret 
and sorrow to her?” 

And Ther£se, turning toward her aunt, kissed her 
tenderty. Madame Raquin closed her eyes. Her niece 
hovered about her, arranged the pillows that sustained 
her head, and showed her a thousand little attentions. 

Laurent was exasperated. 

^ “ Let her alone ! ” he cried. “ Don’t you see that 

your touch is loathsome to her ? If she could lift her 
hand, she would strike you ! ” 

The slow and plaintive tones of his wife incensed 
him to a degree. He read her motives thoroughly. 
She wished to take her stand against him, and leave 
him to Camille’s mercy. Sometimes he wondered if 


228 THERESE RAQUIN. 

she were not in the right, and if the spectre might not 
be mollified in this way, and shivered at the idea of 
being left to struggle alone. 

He, too, would have liked to repent, or at least, to 
play the same farce of repentance which Th6r£se had 
successfully, as he believed, acted ; but he had neither 
words nor tears at command, and he could only try 
and disturb Ther£se, who replied with a melancholy 
sigh to his angry words, and who became all the more 
humble and repentant in proportion to his rudeness. 

Therdse had a little way of praising Camille’ now that 
was quite new. 

“ He was good,” she said, “ and we were very cruel 
when we attacked this kind creature, who never did 
harm to any one.” 

“ He was good, yes,” said Laurent ; “ but I think 
you had best say more, and call him stupid. I can 
remember the time when you said that every syllable 
he uttered provoked you, and that he could not open 
his lips without giving utterance to some silly plati- 
tude.” 

“ Stop, if you please ; it seems to me that it is hardly 
decent for you to insult the man you have murdered ! 
You know nothing of a woman’s heart, Laurent. 
Camille loved me, and I loved him.” 

“ You loved him ! Heaven forbid that any woman 
should love me in a similar fashion ! I suppose it was 
because you loved your husband that you took me for 
a lover l ” 


th£kese raquin, 


229 


“ I loved him like a sister. He was the son of my 
benefactress. He had all the delicacy of feeble natures. 
He was generous and noble— -and we killed him! 
My God ! my God ! we killed him ! ” 

She wept aloud. Madame Raquin’s eyes were like 
daggers in their sharp steely light, for she was indig- 
nant at hearing Camille’s praises from such lips. 
Laurent paced the room with feverish step, asking 
himself how he could best silence these perpetual 
whines of Th^rSse. 

He himself began to be bewildered in his judgment 
of Camille, and to credit him with all the virtues which 
he now constantly heard ascribed to him. But that 
which disturbed him more than anything else, and 
which led to scenes of unparalleled violence, was the 
parallel which the widow of the murdered man drew 
between her first and second husband, of course to the 
advantage of the first. 

“ Yes,” she cried, “ he was better than you ! Would 
that he were living, and you were in his place.” 

At first Laurent shrugged his shoulders on hearing 
these words. 

“You may say what you please,” she said with more 
vehemence, “ I did not love him as I ought to have 
done when he was alive, but I love him now. I love 
him and I hate you. I am afraid of you because you 
are a murderer — ” 

“ Will you hold your tongue ? ” roared Laurent. 

« And he,” she continued, “ was an honest man, born 


230 


th£rese raquin. 


to be killed by a villain. Yes, you frighten me, for you 
are a man without heart or soul. How do you suppose 
that I can love you, now that you are stained with 
Camille’s blood? Camille was kind to me, and you 
killed him. Alas ! alas ! if he were but alive again ! ” 
“I tell you, Th^rcjse, you had best hold your 
tongue ! ” 

“ Why should I hold my tongue ? I am only speak- 
ing the truth. I would give every drop of blood in 
your body and in mine to be forgiven. I weep for him 
night and day. Ah ! Camille, Camille ! Is it my fault 
that this dastard murdered you ? ” 

Laurent, blinded by rage, staggered toward his wife 
and catching her by the arm, threw her on the ground 
and pressed his knee on her breast. 

“ Yes,” she cried, uncowed by Iris uplifted hand, 
“ strike me ! kill me if you will ! Camille never would 
have hurt a hair of my head ! ” 

Laurent, in his rage, shook her violently ; his hand 
hovered about her throat, for he was tempted to strangle 
her. Thdrese did not struggle ; on the contrary, she 
did her best to exasperate her husband still further. 
She had found that after one of these scenes she slept 
better, and this was her remedy against the ever 
recurring tortures of the night. 

Laurent’s existence had grown to be intolerable ever 
since the day that Th^rese had taken it into her head 
to weep for Camille. She quoted him on all occasions. 
Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had that 


THEBESE RAQUIN. 


231 


good quality ; Camille was always courteous ; Camille 
had pleasant little surprises for her. Thdrese mali- 
ciously racked her imagination to find those things 
whicli would most irritate her husband. 

She spoke of her girlhood with deep sighs of regret, 
ancl mingled the memory of the murdered man with the 
most trivial acts of her daily life. 

The spectre who haunted the house, was thus openly 
introduced within its walls. Laurent could not take 
up his fork, hand a plate, pour out a glass of water, 
that Therese did not make him feel that Camille had 
touched the same things, and in a different and better 
way. 

Thus constantly jostled against the man he had 
killed, the murderer felt that he could bear no more. 
He was troubled with a strange hallucination. Hear- 
ing himself thus constantly compared to Camille, and 
all the time surrounded by things which he had 
handled, and which were intimately associated with 
him, Laurent finally began to identify himself with his 
victim. He was utterly bewildered, and his mind 
thrown off its balance. 

All the quarrels between himself and his wife now 
terminated in blows. 


232 


TH£llESE RAQUIN. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


TO BE, OK NOT TO BE 


VHEN came an hour when Madame Raquin, in order 



X to escape the tortures to which she was subjected, 
determined to die of starvation. She could no longer 
endure the constant presence of these two persons, who 
had once been so dear to her. She decided that she 
must put an end to her martyrdom. 

For two days she refused all nourishment, and 
setting her teeth together, would not swallow the food 
that was put into her mouth. Th^rdse was in despair ; 
she asked herself to what altar she could carry the 
burthen of her repentance, when her aunt was no 
longer there. She talked by the hour together, to 
prove to her aunt that she ought to live. She wept — 
she even showed a certain passionate anger, and opened 
the jaws of the poor invalid, as if she had been an 
obstinate animal. It was an odious struggle. 

Laurent was perfectly indifferent, and could not 
comprehend the energy and indignation displayed by 
his wife, in preventing the suicide of the old lady. 
Now that the presence of Madame Raquin was not 
essential to his own comfort, he wished her to die. Not 
that he would have killed her, but since she desired 
death, he was not going to lift his finger to prevent 
her. 


therese raquin. 


233 


“Let her be! I tell 3*011 — ler her be!” he cried. 
“ Let her starve herself, if she chooses ! Why not ? 
We shall both be better off without her ! ” 

These words, repeated over and over again, produced 
a strange impression on the invalid. She was afraid 
that Laurent might be right — that after her death, 
they might know a period of peace. She said to herself 
that it was cowardly in her to die — that she had no 
right to depart until this tragedy was played to its 
bitter end. Not until then should she go to Camille — 
not until she could say to him, “You are avenged!” 

The thought of suicide was no longer dear to her, 
when she remembered that she would thus leave this 
world before her beloved son was avenged. 

She could not be easy in her grave, until she saw 
some hope of the guilty being visited with vengeance 
from on high. 

With this conviction, she not only took the nourish- 
ment presented by her niece, but she took it eagerly. 
Besides, it was clear to her that the denouement could 
not be far off. Each day the position of husband and 
wife became more antagonistic. Their days had now 
become as horrible as their nights — they neither of 
them had an hour of peace in the whole twent} r -four. 

They lived in a hell which they themselves had 
made. Their words and their acts became more and 
more cruel, and each seemed eager to push the other 
into the yawning abyss at their feet. 

The thought of a separation had come to both. Each 


234 


TIIERESE RAQUIK, 


had dreamed of flying to some distant spot, far from 
this Passage Neuf, whose dreary dampness seemed so 
singularly appropriate to their desolated lives. But 
they dared not take so desperate a step. They hated 
each other profoundly, but if they were to live so far 
apart that they could not manifest this hatred, the 
entire occupation of their lives would be gone. 

They were at once repelled and attracted, and felt 
all those strange sensations which people feel who, 
after a quarrel, turn away and then come back to shout 
out new insults, and give further vent to their sense of 
being wronged. 

Then, too, there were material obstacles to their 
flight, they knew not what to do with Madame Raquin, 
nor what to sa}^ to their Thursday guests. If they fled, 
it was more than probable that suspicion would be 
aroused. Then their imaginations drew vivid pictures 
of the pursuit that would be made, of their arrest, 
and of their execution. And they lingered — lingered 
through sheer laziness and cowardice. 

When Laurent was away, in the hours intervening 
between the morning and the afternoon, Therdse wan- 
dered about the house uneasy and restless. She did 
not know what to do with herself, nor how to All the 
great lack which she felt in her life. She was* in a 
mood of restless despair when she was not kneeling, 
dissolved in tears, at the side of her aunt, or lying on 
the floor felled by the cruel hand of her husband. 

As soon as she was alone in the shop, she sat list- 


TH^KESE RAQUIK. 


235 


lessly gazing forth into the dark Passage with mournful 
eyes, at the people as they hurried past. She often 
begged Suzanne to pass whole days with her; the 
presence of this innocent, pale creature comforted her. 

Suzanne accepted her invitations Avith joy; she 
loved Th^rese with respectful veneration, and had 
often wished that she might be allowed to bring her 
work daily and sit in the shop while Olivier was at his 
office. And now she gladly sat and embroidered in the 
chair formerly occupied by Madame Raquin. 

Thdr£se, from this time forth, did not trouble herself 
so much about her aunt, nor did she kneel so often and 
weep hot tears upon her knees. She had another 
occupation, and listened with some interest to Suzanne’s 
monotonous babble about her health and her home, and 
all the other common-place things of a very common- 
place existence. She was sometimes surprised that 
these things afforded her any amusement, and smiled 
bitterly as she pictured to herself what her own life 
might have been. 

By degrees all the customers who had formed the 
habit of coming to the shop disappeared. Since the 
illness of her aunt she had allowed her stock to dimin- 
ish, and she took no pains to keep those things dusted 
and in order which were already on the shelves. They 
were some of them mouldy and all tumbled and shabby 
— spiders spun their webs over them, and the shop was 
rarely swept. But the customers were driven away 
more by the strange manner in which Th^rese received 


236 


th£rese raquin. 


them than by the disorder of the shop itself. When 
she was np stairs, shaken by her sobs, her long hair 
streaming over her shoulders like a Magdalen, and the 
shop bell announced the entrance of a customer, she 
was obliged to hurry down without even knotting up 
her hair or bathing her red eyes in cold water. She, 
under these circumstances, waited on the wants of the 
customer in an abrupt, absent way. Sometimes she 
did not take the trouble to go down, but called from 
the top of the stairs to know what was wanted, and 
then promptly asserted that she did not have the article 
required. 

These manners were not especially agreeable, nor 
much calculated to retain her patrons. The work- 
women of the Quartier, accustomed to Madame 
Raquin’s courtesy, and to her amiability, were shocked 
by the rudeness of ThdrSse, and when the latter had 
Suzanne with her, the defection was complete, for the 
two women, in order not to be disturbed, treated the 
few persons who presented themselves in a manner 
that effectual^ prevented their coming again. 

The result of this was naturally that the revenues 
of the shop were nothing, and it became necessary to 
draw on their capital of forty thousand francs. Some- 
times Th^rese was absent for an entire afternoon ; 
no one knew where she went. She had encouraged 
Suzanne’s friendship, not only for her companionship 
in the shop but also that she might take care of it 
while she was away. When Thdrdse returned in the 


TH^RESE RAQUIN. 237 

evening she found Olivier’s little wife seated behind 
the counter in the same attitude in which she had left 
her five hours before, and on Suzanne’s lips there was 
the same still faint smile. 

Laurent’s days seemed to him each a week long. 
They were all alike, characterized by the same ennui 
and the same monotony. Each night he looked for- 
ward with disgust to the next twenty-four hours, which 
would offer the same sufferings. He saw before him a 
weary stretch of weeks, months and years, the weight 
of which he felt in advance. When the Future is 
without hope, the Present assumes infinite bitterness. 

Laurent no longer struggled — he submitted to the 
emptiness of his life. His idleness was intolerable to 
him, but he did not know what to do with his time. 
In the morning he left the shop, not knowing where to 
go, but heartsick at the idea of doing just what he had 
done the day before, and yet he had nothing else open 
to him. He went to his atelier because it was his 
habit so to do. This room, with gray walls and its 
skylight, through which he could see only the blue 
Heaven, filled him with intense sadness. He lay on 
his sofa; he dared not touch a brush, for he had made 
several attempts since the fatal visit of his artist friend 
and each time it was Camille’s face that sneered upon 
the canvas. To prevent himself from losing his senses 
he dashed his paint box into a corner, and had nothing 
on earth to do with his time. 

In the afternoon he asked himself where he should 


238 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


go. He lounged through the streets for an hour and 
then, repelling the temptation to go back to his atelier , 
he sauntered along the Quais. Every time he looked 
at the Seine he shivered and felt ill — and yet he could 
not keep away from the river. 

The next day he began this routine again, and the 
next was the same story. This went on for months, 
and there was every reason to suppose that it would 
continue for years. 

When Laurent said to himself that he had murdered 
Camille for this, he felt a faint thrill of wonder that he 
had attained the felicity of which he had dreamed, 
which consisted of sitting with hands before him as 
long as he pleased. He said that he was a fool not to 
appreciate this happy ease now that it was his. 

But it was of no use ; he was obliged to admit in the 
depths of his heart that his idleness only made his 
sufferings more acute. This idleness, this animal exist- 
ence, of which he had dreamed, was his worse chastise- 
ment. Occasionally he wished he had some hard, 
physical labor to perform, or some mental task which 
would enable him to forget. 

The fact was that his only moments of relief were 
when quarrelling with Th^rSse in the evening. This 
amusement enlivened his spirits. 

His greatest suffering, both moral and physical, came 
from the wound on his neck. His nerves were so 
excited in thinking of it that he imagined the scar to 
be gradually spreading over his whole body. If it 


th£r£se raquin. 


239 


ever came to pass that he momentarily forgot his 
crime, a stinging pain in this wound would recall the 
murder to his memory, with each revolting detail. 

He could not stand before a mirror without seeing 
the phenomenon that he had so often remarked, and 
which frightened him whenever he beheld it, which 
was the blood gradually mounting to this scar, under 
the influence of the emotion he felt, and turning it to 
a brilliant scarlet. This living wound, throbbing and 
reddening under the least excitement, was a never- 
ceasing trouble and despair. 

Ther&se, whenever she saw it, never failed to sob 
aloud and speak of it in such a way as she knew to be 
most offensive to her husband. Sometimes when sha- 
ving, with the razor in his hand, he was tempted to 
draw it across his throat and have done with it all. 
When he lifted his chin and beheld the red line under 
the white foam of the soap, his rage and despair was 
such that he longed to try the sharpness of his razor ; 
but the steel was cold and he relinquished his idea. 

His dull torpor did not vanish until after dinner, and 
then only under the sting of his wife’s words. When 
he was tired of quarrelling with Therdse and of beat- 
ing her, he kicked the doors, as children do. He 
especially hated Francois, who, as soon as he entered, 
always took refuge on the knees of Madame Raquin. 
If Laurent did not kill him it was simply because he 
was really afraid to touch the creature. 

The cat watched him with round, green eyes, which 


240 


Tn^R^SE RAQUIN. 


had the most diabolical expression. It was these eyes 
that so exasperated the young man. He asked himself 
why the cat looked at him in this way, and finally 
imagined the most preposterous things. When at 
table, either in the midst of a long silence or of a 
question, he turned his head and perceived Francois 
looking at him with his pitiless gaze, he turned pale 
and was on the point of saying : 

“Well! speak out! What on earth do you want?” 
When he could tread on the tail of the creature, or on 
one of its paws, he did it with eager joy, and then the 
mewing of the poor beast frightened him out of his 
senses, as if he had suddenly heard a cry of agony 
from human lips. 

Laurent was absolutely afraid of Francois, more 
especially when the creature was planted on the knees 
of the invalid as within an impregnable fortress, from 
whence he examined his enemy with his green eyes. 
Laurent then perceived a vague resemblance between 
Francois and the old lady, and said to himself that the 
cat, as well as Madame Raquin, knew his crime, and 
would denounce it some day. 

One evening, the behavior of Francois had been so 
especially strange that Laurent determined he would 
bear no more. He opened the window of the dining- 
room, and then took up the cat by the nape of its neck. 

Madame Raquin saw what was impending, and tears 
slowly gathered in her e} T es. 

The cat twisted himself about and tried to bite 


TIIERESE EAQUIN. 


241 


Laurent’s hand, but Laurent held the creature firmly. 
He took him to the window, gave him two or three 
swings, and then sent him with all his strength against 
the high wall opposite. 

The blow nearly annihilated the animal, who fell on 
the pavement, and all that night the miserable creature 
dragged itself from stone to stone with piteous mews. 
Its spine was broken. 

That night Madame Raquin wept for Francis as she 
had wept for Camille. Th^rese had a frightful attack 
of the nerves — the sounds made by the cat under 
the window were indeed terrible. Laurent soon had 
another cause for anxiety, for he was greatly startled 
by certain changes in the manner of his wife. 

Th^rese had become very sombre and taciturn. She 
no longer lavished on Madame Raquin her effusive 
repentance nor her grateful kisses. She resumed her 
old manner of selfish indifference and cruel scorn. It 
was as if she had tried remorse, and finding no solace 
in it, had turned to find some other remedy. Her 
sadness came unquestionably from her inability to find 
rest anywhere. She looked down on her aunt with an 
air of disdain as upon a useless creature, who could be 
of no further use to her, and bestowed on her only 
such care as was required to prevent her from perish- 
ing with hunger. She was more restless than ever, 
and absented herself some three or four times in the 
week for a whole day at a time. 

This transformation puzzled and alarmed Laurent. 

15 


242 


THE RE S E RAQUIN. 


This dreary ennui seemed to him more hazardous than 
the noisy despair with which she had overwhelmed 
him. She rarely spoke to him now; she seemed to 
have forgotten how to quarrel. He preferred anything 
rather than to see her thus reserved, for in his eyes it 
prognosticated evil. 

He was afraid that some day she would go to a 
Priest and relate the crime. 

Therefore the numerous absences from home of 
Thdrdse at this time assumed an appalling significance 
to his eyes. He thought that she had some confidant 
with whom she was preparing her treason. 

Twice he undertook to follow her, but he lost her in 
the streets. But he determined to know what she was 
doing; he was convinced that his conjectures were 
correct, and that Th^rese was about to make a con- 
fession which must be throttled before it passed her 
lips. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


243 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

O NE morning, Laurent, instead of going to his 
atelier , established himself near the window of 
a Cabaret on one of the corners of the Rue G-uSnSgard , 
opposite the Passage . From this point he could see 
every person who turned out of the Passage. He was 
waiting for Th^rese. The evening previous he had 
heard her say that she should go out early and be gone 
very probably all day. Laurent waited a full half hour. 
He knew that his wife always went through la Rue 
Madeleine; for a moment he fancied he might have 
missed her by her going out through la Rue de Seine . 
As he hesitated what he should do he saw Th&r&se 
come out of the Passage . She was dressed very con- 
spicuously, and held up her dress .to show her feet as 
she walked. 

Laurent followed her. 

She moved very slowly, for the day was very lovely, 
and took a street that led past the Pcole de Medicine . 
Laurent was greatly N startled, for he knew that a police 
station was near by. It was clear that his wife 
intended to betray them, but he determined that he 
would drag her away before she could knock at this 
door, and compel her to hold her tongue. 


244 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


He hid himself behind a door and watched her. But 
suddenly Ther^se crossed the street and entered a cafe 
which then stood on the corner of la rue Monsieur le 
Prince . She seated herself among a crowd of students 
and women, all of whom greeted her familiarly. She 
ordered a glass of absinthe, while she talked with a 
handsome young fellow who seemed to have been 
expecting her. Laurent understood, and went away 
reassured and happy. 

“ Upon my word,” he said to himself, “ she is a cun- 
ning creature — much more shrewd than I ! ” 

He was astonished that he had never thought of 
throwing himself into vice. His wife’s infidelity did 
not disturb him in the least. On the contrary he was 
rather amused by it. Anything was better, in fact, 
than that his wife should have gone where he at first 
supposed was her intention. He saw now, that he had 
no reason for fear, and this was such a relief to him that 
he quite enjoyed his walk. 

That evening Laurent determined to insist on his 
wife giving him several thousand francs, and he waited 
for Thdrdse, who had not come in. 

When she arrived he was quite amiable, but she was 
sulky and silent. 

At table she did not eat a mouthful, and when dinner 
was over, Laurent asked her for five thousand francs. 

“ No,” she answered coldly. “ If I should let you 
have your own way, we should die in the poor-house. 
Are you ignorant of our position? We are gradually 
using our principal.” 


THERESE R A QUIN. 245 

“I dare say,” replied he calmly, “but all the same, I 
want the money.” 

“No, I tell you, no ! You resigned your clerkship, 
the shop amounts to nothing, and we have only the 
income of my money to live on, and that does not 
cover our expenses. Each month I am obliged to draw 
on my capital. You will have no more ! ” 

“ Reflect a little. I tell you that I must have five 
thousand francs, and I will have them. You will give 
them to me yourself.” 

This quiet persistency irritated Th6r£se. 

“ Ah ! I know,” she cried, “ you intend to go on as 
you have begun. For four years you have been sup- 
ported by us. You could do nothing, but you required 
the best of food and clothing. No,” she hesitated, “ I 
tell you that not one sou shall you have from me. 
You are a — ” 

Laurent began to laugh. 

“ Go on,” he said serenely, “ you can’t be at a loss 
for an opprobrious epithet, you must hear enough in 
the society you affect at present.” 

This was the only allusion he made to his discovery. 

Therese raised her head quickly and said sharply : 

“ At all events they are not murderers.” 

Laurent became livid. He was silent for a moment, 
then, with his eyes fixed on his wife, he said slowly : 

“ Listen, my girl : we had best say no more, it is not 
good for you or for me to quarrel just now. I am at 
the end of my endurance, and you had better be care- 


246 


TH^KESE RAQUIN. 


ful if you do not want something awful to happen. I 
asked you for five thousand francs because I needed 
them, and I may go further and say that I intend even 
to use them in a way that will be beneficial to us 
both” 

His smile was a singular one. 

“Reflect now, and give me your decision.” 

“I have reflected,” answered his wife, “and you 
shall not have a sou.” 

Her husband started up with such violence that she 
shrank back, afraid of being beaten. But Laurent did 
not go near her. He went to the door, saying coldly, 
that he was tired of the life he led, and that he was 
going to the nearest station house to relate the story 
of the murder. 

“You drive me to it,” he said. “You make my 
existence insupportable. I prefer to be done with it. 
We shall both be sentenced, of course.” 

“ Do you think I care ? ” cried his wife. ‘ “ I am as 
weary as you ! I will go to the police office if you do 
not. I am ready to follow you to the scaffold, and I 
am not such a coward as yourself. Come, I am ready.” 

She went toward the stairs. 

“Very well,” answered Laurent, “we will go 
together.” 

When they got as far as the shop, they looked at 
each other in dismay. It seemed to them that they 
were nailed to the floor. The brief time consumed in 
coming down the stairs had been sufficient to show 
them both the consequences of this proposed confes- 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


247 


sion. They saw, looming before them, the police, the 
prison, the court room, and the guillotine, and each 
was tempted to fling himself at the knees of the other, 
and implore him not to go forth and reveal the great 
crime. 

Fear and embarrassment held them motionless for 
two or three minutes. It was Th^rdse who was the 
first to yield. 

‘‘After all,” she said, “I was a fool to refuse you 
this money. You will have it some day or another, so 
you may as well take it now.” 

She went to the counter and signed a check for five 
thousand francs, which Laurent had only to present at 
a banker’s, and for that night there was no more talk 
of the police station. 

As soon as Laurent had this money, he spent it right 
and left in the lowest forms of dissipation, but he never 
succeeded in drowning memory. He was not made for 
luxury in spite of his liking for it, and he was soon 
weary of it. When he came in and saw Th^rese and 
her aunt, after one of these debauches, he was fright- 
ened at the dreariness of these faces and his home, and 
swore that he would never go away again at all, as he 
seemed so much worse when he came back. 

Th^rese too, went out less and less. She was weary 
of these acquaintances she had made; they had not 
brought her oblivion. Now she went about her house 
with her hair uncombed, and did not care how she 
looked. 

And now the husband and wife were once more shut 


248 


THE RE S E KA QUIN. 


up together in these dismal rooms, and hated each 
other worse than ever. 

Their quarrels began again, and added to these 
quarrels was a sullen fear. The scene that had fol- 
lowed the demand for five thousand francs, was 
repeated morning and night. The ‘fixed idea of each, 
was that the other intended to betray the truth. Any 
unusual look or mode of expression, was at once con- 
strued to mean an immediate visit to the police office. 

When they quarrelled, each said that he would go at 
once and reveal the miserable story. Then they both 
shivered with dread, and both promised not to open 
their lips. 

They suffered horribly, but neither had the courage 
to think of curing these sufferings by putting a red 
hot coal upon their wounds. When they threatened 
to confess this crime, it was only to terrify themselves, 
for never would they have had the strength needed for 
such a step. 

Time after time they went as far as the door of the 
station house — sometimes it was Laurent who went to 
make the confession — sometimes it was Ther£se, but 
invariably they joined each other and decided to wait, 
after having exchanged vehement words. 

Each new paroxysm left them more suspicious and 
less amenable to reason. 

From morning until night they watched each other. 
Laurent never went away from the house, and Therdse 
never went out alone. Their suspicions and their 
fears made them constant companions. Never since 


THERESE RAQUIN. 249 

their marriage had they lived in such close intimacy, 
and never had they suffered such tortures. 

But notwithstanding the agony occasioned by this 
intimate association, they would not consent to be sepa- 
rated for an hour. If Ther&se went down to the shop, 
Laurent followed her for fear she might be tempted to 
talk to some customer. If Laurent stood at the door, 
looking at the passers by, Therese went to his* side to 
see that he spoke to no one. On Thursday evenings, 
when their usual guests were there, the two murderers 
watched each other closely, trembling each time they 
opened their lips expecting some avowal, giving to 
the beginning of every sentence a compromising sense. 

Such a state of warfare could not of course, be of 
long duration. 

Therese and Laurent had each arrived at the 
decision that they could only escape from the conse- 
quences of their first crime by the commission of a 
second. 

One of them must disappear from off the face of the 
earth, that the other might enjoy some repose. This 
reflection occurred to both at the same time ; both felt 
the pressing necessity of a separation, and both felt 
that this separation should be eternal. 

The murder they now thought of seemed to each 
the natural sequence of Camille’s. They did not 
argue with themselves with regard to it, the} 7 accepted 
it as their only course. Laurent decided that dh^rese 
must be put out of the way because Th6r6se worried 
him, and because one word from her lips would be 


250 


THERESE RAQUIX. 


fatal to him. And Th^r&se decided that she would 
kill Laurent for precisely the same reasons. 

This determination on the part of both calmed them 
wonderfully. But their plans were formed with fever- 
ish haste, and with very little prudence. They 
weighed the consequences very vaguely, and made no 
preparations for flight. They simply said to them- 
selves that, if they could do no better they would go 
away with all the money. Tli^rSse had sold out her 
securities and placed the money in a drawer, which 
Laurent knew. But neither asked what would become 
of Madame Raquin. Laurent had met some weeks 
before one of his old college friends, now a celebrated 
chemist. 

This comrade had shown him the laboratory where 
he worked, and all his various drugs. One night, 
when he had decided on the murder, he happened to 
look at Thdrese as she drank a glass of eau-sucree , and 
he suddenly remembered a small stone flask marked 
Prussic Acid. He remembered what the young chemist 
had said of the almost instantaneous effects of this 
poison, and of the very small traces it left behind. He 
decided that this was the poison he should use. 

The next day he contrived to elude the vigilance of 
his wife and went to see his friend, taking the first 
opportunity to slip the flask into his pocket unseen. 
The same day, Thdrese profited by her husband’s 
absence to sharpen a huge kitchen knife, which was 
used to crack sugar. She hid the knife in the side- 
board. 


THERESE RAQUIN. 


251 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE EKD, 


HE following “ Thursday reception at the Raquins,” 



JL as their guests continued to call the evenings 
they passed there, was especially gay and lively. It 
was prolonged until nearly midnight, and Grivet, as 
he left, declared he had never spent such agreeable 


hours. 


Suzanne talked in a low voice of her own private 
affairs. Thdrdse seemed to listen with great interest. 
Her eyes were fixed on the face of her companion and 
she moved her head in assent, but her thoughts were 
far away. 

Laurent, on his side, lent but indifferent attention to 
the stories told by old Michaud and Olivier. These 
two men were talking so fast that Grivet could not 
slip in a word edgewise. He was contented to listen, 
however, for he entertained great respect for both 
father and son. 

This evening he declared, with childish pleasure, 
that the conversation of the ex-policeman amused him 
quite as much as a game of dominos. 

For four years these people had never missed a 
Thursday at the Raquins, and they were not yet fa- 


252 


THERESE RAQUItf. 


tigued with these monotonous evenings, of which any 
other persons in the world would have been perfectly 
sick. 

They had never once suspected the tragedy going on 
in this house, always so calm and peaceful when they 
entered. 

Olivier often declared that the house was odorous of 
respectability. This was his pet police officer’s jest. 
Grivet, not to be behind hand, called it The Temple 
of Peace. 

Several times lately, Th^rese had explained bruises 
on her face, b}^ saying that she had fallen and hurt her- 
self; but no one of her guests dreamed that these 
bruises had been inflicted by Laurent’s hand. They all 
believed this to be a model household, and that love 
and devotion reigned there supreme. The poor paraly- 
tic no longer made the slightest effort to reveal the 
infamy hidden behind the dreary tranquillity of these 
Thursday evenings. 

A daily witness of the dissensions and recriminations 
between these criminals, foreseeing the crisis which 
must arrive before long, she began to accept the truth 
that events needed no help from her. From the time 
that she fully assented to this, she lapsed into an 
attitude of patient waiting for the consequences of 
Camille’s murder, which must inevitably lay the 
criminals dead in their turn. 

She asked only of heaven that she should be allowed 


THEKESE KAQU1N. 


253 


to live until she had seen the consummation of the 
tragedj’ she foresaw. 

That evening Grivet drew a chair to her side and 
talked to her for some time, making as usual his 
own replies to his questions. But she did not once 
look at him. 

When the clock struck twelve, the guests rose in 
astonishment. 

“ Upon my word,” said Grivet, “ we are so comfor- 
table here always, that we forget how time goes — ” 

“And,” interposed Michaud, “I am never sleepy 
here, though at home I always go to my bed at nine 
o’clock.” 

Olivier thought it was time for his little joke. 

“ You see,” he said, with a smile that showed his 
yellow teeth, “ you see these are honest people here — 
the house smells honest — that is why we like it ! ” 

Grivet, vexed that he had been anticipated, struck an 
attitude, and in a declamatory voice, exclamed : 

“ This room is the Temple of Peace ! ” 

Suzanne was tying her hat-strings, and as she finished 
she said to Th6r£se : 

“ I shall be here to-morrow, at nine o’clock.” 

“No,” answered Th6r£se, hastily, “do not come until 
afternoon. I shall go out in the morning.” 

She spoke in a strange, agitated voice, and accom- 
panied her guests through the shop, Laurent, carrying 
a lamp in his hand, preceded them. 




254 


T H E R & S E EAQUIN. 


When the door was locked on their departed guests, 
the husband and wife uttered a sigh of relief. They 
had been devoured all the evening by a sense of restless 
impatience. They had avoided looking at each other, 
and could they have done so, they would have stopped 
their ears in order not to hear the voice of the one who 
now caused a sick loathing. They went silently up the 
stairs, their limbs shaking under them and their hands 
trembling, so that Laurent was obliged to set the lamp 
he held on the table, lest he should drop it. 

Before rolling Madame Raquin into the next room, 
they were in the habit of putting the dining-room in 
order — replacing the dominos in their box, placing 
the chairs back, and preparing a glass of eau-sucrSe 
for the night. But this evening, when they went 
back to the dining-room, they seated themselves. The 
eyes of both were wandering — the lips of both were 
trembling. 

Presently Laurent said, with evident effort : 

“ Well ! are we to sit here all night ? ” 

<4 No, we must go to our own room,” answered 
Therese slowly, and shivering as if she were very cold. 

She rose from her chair and took the carafe . 

“ I will do that,” cried her husband, in a voice that 
he endeavored to render natural and unaffected. “ I 
will prepare the eau-sucrSe while you attend to your 
aunt.” 

He took the carafe from the hands of his wife and 


255 


THER^SE RAQUIN. 

filled a glass with water. Then, turning his back, he 
half emptied the tiny flask of prussic acid into it and 
adding several lumps of sugar, walked away from the 
table, leaving the glass there. 

All this time, ThdrSse was crouched in front of the 
side-board, apparently looking for something. She had 
taken out the kitchen knife and was trying to slip it 
into one of her large pockets. 

At this moment, a strange sensation — that sensation 
that warns us of the approach of danger — induced 
both husband and wife to turn and look at each other. 
Th^rdse saw the flask still in the hands of Laurent, and 
Laurent perceived the gleam of the steel knife among 
the folds of his wife’s skirts. They looked at each 
other in silence for some minutes, the husband not far 
from the table, the wife in front of the side-board. 
They understood each other perfectly. Each was 
chilled with horror at seeing their own thoughts 
reflected in the face of his accomplice. 

Madame Raquin knew that the end was near. 
Suddenly both Thlrdse and Laurent burst into tears. 
They threw themselves into the arms of each other ; 
it seemed to them that a great weight had been lifted 
from their breasts ; they were softened and touched. 
As they wept, they thought of the shame of their Past 
and of the shame of their Future, if they were cow- 
ardly enough to continue to live. Then came an 
irresistible longing for repose. They exchanged one 
last look. 


256 


THEKESE EAQUIN. 


Thdr£se took the glass and drank half its contents, 
and extended it to Laurent. He finished it. They 
were felled to the earth as by lightning. 

The dead bodies lay all night on the floor of the 
dining-room, the light from the shaded lamp falling 
upon them, and for twelve long hours, until the next 
day at noon, Madame Raquin, motionless in her chair, 
contemplated them at her feet. 


THE END. 



die Zola’s New 


Hooks. 


The Greatest Novels Ever Printed. 


Read what “Eucy Hooper” says of “Emile Zola's Works,” in the 
Philadelphia Evening 1 Telegraph. 

The immense success of Zola forms a curious feature in the literary history of this age. For he is 
i not only honored by the critics, who recognize his strength, his pitiless audacity, his positive genius, 
but he is the idol of the lower classes on account of the truthfulness of his delineations. Now I do not 
join with the world at large in considering Zola immoral. He is no more immoral than a physician 
; lecturing about certain phases of horror in the condition of a patient afflicted with mortal disease. 
Nobody will aiise from the perusal of Zola’s books possessed with a desire to imitate the actions or to ' 
follow the example of his heroes and heroines. His works are not demoralizing. That quality resides 
i far more potently in the pages of the romances of the “ roses and raptures " school. He never makes 
vice lovely, never paints it in alluring tints, never strews its pathway with flowers. He is simply, lit- 
i, erally, and pitilessly true to life in his powerful delineations. He is a French Thackeray. The talent 
of the two men — the author of Vanity Fair and the author of the Assommoir — is almost identical, 
modified in each by the conditions of their nationality and of the society for which they wrote. Place 
j Thackeray in Paris, the son of Parisian parents, and Vanity Fair will become exasperated into La 
Curie. Transfer Zola to London, and transform him into an Englishman, and he will write The Story 
- of Pendennis instead of The History of the Rougon-Macquarts. Nor are Zola’s books the ephemeral 
; productions of an hour. They are immortal because they are true. Two hundred years from now, 

, historians seeking to tell the tale of the France of the Second Empire and the Third Republic, will turn 
1 to Zola as to a gallery of photographs taken from the life. Zola is in literature what Holbein was in 
i art. His immense hold over the sympathies of the lower orders was never more fully shown than since 
! the production of the melodrama drawn from his novel of Nana, at the Ambigu. I went on Saturday 
i night last, and the throng was extraordinary. And here let it be stated, once for all, that Nana is not 
an indecent play. It is superbly put upon the stage, and is admirably played. It is not a play to take 
young girls to see, assuredly, but still a very curious and accurate study of an important phase of 
Parisian life. “ Nana” is simply a realistic “Camille.” She is a frivolous, good-hearted, conscience- 
: less creature, and as for remorse, or aspirations after a purer or nobler life, such ideas never cross her 
brain. She holds in her vacant soul one nobler instinct, and that is her love for her child. In this 
respect Zola has been true to life as in other details. 

LIST OF EMILE ZOLA’S GREAT WORKS. 

Nana! The Sequel to “ L’Assommoir." Nana! By Emile Zola. With a Picture of 
•I “ Nana ” on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

E* Assommoir. By Emile Zola. L'Assoin moi r. With a Picture 0/ “ Gervaise ," 

I Nana's mother, on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Th£r£se Raquill. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana." With a Portrait 0/ “ Emile Zola" 
on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Ea Cur6e. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar 
in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Magdalen Ferat. By Emile Zola. With a Picture of “ Magdalen Ferat" on the cover. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Florinda; or, Zola’s Court of Napoleon III. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana." 
With a Picture of“Clorinda " on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 1 

Albino; or. The Abbe's Temptation. (Ea Faute de E’Abbe Mouret.) 

By Emile Zola. With a Picture of “Albine " on the cover. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, gi. 25. 

H£l£ne: a Love Episode; or, line Page D’Amonr. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ Nana." With a Picture of“Hlline " on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

The Rougon-Macquart Family; or, Miette. (Ea Fortune des Rougou.) 

By Emile Zola, author o (“Nana." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The Conquest of Plassans; or, Ea Conquete de Plassans. By Emile Zola, 
author of “Nana." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The Markets of Paris; or, Ee Ventre de Paris. By Emile Zola, author of 
“Nana." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

tVT' Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents everywhere, and on all Rail - 
Rsad Trains or copies of any one book, or all of them, will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, 
per mail, post-paid, on remitt ing the price of the ones wanted in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa, 



FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS, AND PUBLISHED BY 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA. 


NANA. A Novel. By Emile Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” “ Clorinda,” 
“Albine,” “ Helene,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

L’ASSOMMOIR. A Novel. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “ Clorinda,” 
“ Hel6ne,” “Albine,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

MAGDALEN FERAT. A Love Story. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ L’As- 
sommoir,” “ Clorinda,” “ Helene,” “Albine,” etc. Paper, 75 cents, or $1.00 in cloth. 

CLORINDA ; or, THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ Nana,” “L’Assommoir,” “Albine,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

ALBINE; or, THE. ABBE’S TEMPTATION. (LA FAUTE BE L’ABBE MOUEET.) 
By Emile Zola , author of “ Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

HELENE, A LOVE EPISODE; or, UNE PAGE D’AMOUR. By Emile Zola, author 
of “ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” etc; Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

MIETTE ; or, THE R0UG0N-MACQUART FAMILY. (LA FORTUNE DES RQUG0N.) 
By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS; or, LA CONQUETE DE PLASSANS. By Emile 
Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” “ Nana,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1 .25 in cloth. 

THE MARKETS OF PARIS; or, LE VENTRE DE PARIS. By Emile Zola , 
author of “ L’Assommoir,” “ Nana,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP. By Major Joseph Jones, of Pineville, Georgia.. 
With 21 Illustrations by Barley and Cary. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

MAJOR JONES’S TRAVELS. By Major Joseph Jones, author of “ Major Jones’s 
Courtship.” With 8 Illustrations by Darley. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1 100 in cloth. 

MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP; and MAJOR JONES’S TRAVELS. Both in one vol- 
ume. Author’s New Edition. By Major Joseph Jones , of Pineville, Georgia, With 29 
Illustrations by Darley and Cary. Bound in morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.75. 

MAJOR JONES’S GEORGIA SCENES. By author of “Major Jones’s Courtship* 
With 12 full page Illustrations by Darley. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth, 

RANCY COTTEM’S COURTSHIP. By author of “Major Jones’s Courtship.” 
With 8 full page illustrations. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

LA GRANDE FLORINE. Sequel to the “ Stranglers of Paris.” By Adolphe Bclot, 
author of “ The Black Venus.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE STRANGLERS OF PARIS. (Les Etrangleurs of Paris.) By Adolphe Belot, 
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THE COUNT DE CAM0R8. The Man of the Second Empire. By Octave FeuUlet, 
author of “ Bellah,” “ The Amours of Phillippe.” Paper, 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth. 

ST. MAUR; AN EARL’S WOOING. A New Society Novel. By John Carroll, 
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MAJOR JONES’S SCENES IN GEORGIA. With Full Page Illustrations, from 
Original Designs by Darley. Morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.50. 

THE SWAMP DOCTOR’S ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH-WEST, and COLONEL 
THORPE’S SCENES IN ARKANSAW. Full of I? lustrations. Price $1.50 each. 

HIGH LIFE IN NEW YORK. By Jonathan Slick. Illustrated. Price $1.5ol 

IgigrA&ore Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or a 
me or all of them, will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the 

T. B. PETERSON <C BROTHERS, Phiiadtlp 


ipies oj 
Publishers, 
hi a, 


. 


1 


a, 


FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS, AND PUBLISHED BY 

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CAMILLE; or, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. (LA DAME AUX CAMELIAS.) 

By Alexander Dumas. Paper cover, 75 cents. Cloth, $1.25. Library edition, $1.75. 

MADAME jBOVARY. A Tale of Provincial Life , and a Master - Work of the Nine - 
teenth Century. By Gustave Flaubert. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

VIDOCQ! THE FRENCH DETECTIVE. An Autobiography. With his Portrait 
and Autograph , and with Illustrative Engravings, from Original Designs by Cruik- 
shank, and an Introductory Chapter, with Personal Recollections, by Dr. R. Shelton 
Mackenzie. Pric<? , T 5 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

MY HERO. A Captivating Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester , author of “Viva,” 
“ Mignon,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

A YOUNG GIRL’S ROMANCE. A Pathetic and Absorbing Story of a Noble and 
Heroic Life. By Ernest Daudet , author of “ The Little Sister,” “Juliette’s Lovers,” 
“A Martyr of Love,” “ Henriette,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

SABINE’S FALSEHOOD. A Love Story, from the Revue des Deux Mondes. By 
Madame la Princesse O. Cantacuzene-Altieri. Price 50 cts. in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

BELLAH. A Tale of Brittany. By Octave Feuillet, author of “ The Count De 
Camors,” “ The Amours of Philippe,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

XENIE’S INHERITANCE. A Tale of Russian Life. By Henry Greville, author of 

Dosia,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

DOSIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Marrying Off a Daughter,” 

Saveli’s Expiation,” and “ i*abrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

THE TRIALS OF RAISSA. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville , author of 

Dosia,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE PRINCESS OGHEROF, A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville , author 
of “ Dosia,” “ Markof,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. A Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of 
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MARKOF, THE RUSSIAN VIOLINIST. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, 
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PHILOMENE’S MARRIAGES. By Henry Greville. Paper, 75 cents, cloth $1.25. 

PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. By Greville. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25. 

THE EARL OF MAYFIELD. An Historical Novel . By Thomas P. May, Esq., of 
New Orleans. Seventh Edition. Cloth, black and gold, price $1.50. 

THE ROMAN TRAITOR ; or, THE DAYS OF CICERO, CATO, AND CATALINB 
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ANGELE’S FORTUNE. By Andre Theuriet. Paper, 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth. 

COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. Morocco cloth, black and gold, price $1.50. 

HOW SHE WON HIM. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

HYDE PARK SKETCHES. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

JARL’S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. Paper, price 25 cents. 

LINDSAY’S LUCK. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. Paper, price 25 cents. 

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The following New Books are printed on tinted paper , and are issued in uniform 
style, in square 12 mo. form. Price Fifty Cents each in Paper Cover, or One Dollar each 
in Morocco Cloth , Black and Gold. They are Thirty of the best Novels ever printed . 


LTTCIE RODEY. A Society Novel. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia,” “ Marry- 
ing Off a Daughter,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” “ Markof,” and “ Gabrielle.” 

THE LITTLE COUNTESS. By Octave Feuillet , author of “ The Count De Camors .” 

“ THEO.” A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances II. Burnett, author of “ Kathleen.” 
SAVELI’S EXPIATION. By Henry Gr'eville , author of “ Dosia,” “Sonia,” “ Bonne, 
Marie,” “ Gabrielle,” etc. A dramatic and powerful novel of Russian life. 
BONNE-MARIE. A Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “Dosia,” and “Gabrielle.” 
THE AMERICAN “ L’ASSOMMOIR.” A Parody on Zola’s “ L’Assommoir.” 

MISS MARGERY’S ROSES. A Charming Love Story. By Robert C. Meyers. 
MADELEINE. A Love Story. By Jules Sandeau. Crowned by the French Academy. 
KATHLEEN. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Theo,” 
“ Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “ Miss Crespigny,” “ A Quiet Life,” etc. 
GABRIELLE ; or, THE HOUSE OF MAUREZE. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia.” 
SYBIL BROTHERTON. A Novel. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Soutliworth. 

MISS CRESPIGNY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances H. Burnett, author of “ Theo.” 
THE STORY OF ‘ ELIZABETH.’ By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray. 
A QUIET LIFE. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Kathleen.” 

A FRIEND; or, L’AMIE. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli’s Expiation.” 
FATHER TOM AND THE POPE; or, A NIGHT AT THE VATICAN. With Full 
Page Illustrations of the scenes between the Pope and Father Tom. 

PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances H. Burnett. 
TWO WAYS TO MATRIMONY ; or, IS IT LOVE 1 or, FALSE PRIDE. 

THE DAYS OF MADAME POMPADOUR; or, MADAME POMPADOUR’.S GARTER. 

A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV. By Gabrielle De St. Andre. 

A WOMAN’S MISTAKE. A Charming Love Story. By Madame Anglle Dussaud. 
CARMEN. By Prosper Merimee. Book from which opera of “ Carmen ” was dramatized. 
DOURNOF. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia,” “ Sonia,” etc. 
SONIA. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli’s Expiation.” 
THE MATCHMAKER. A Charming Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. 

THE RED HILL TRAGEDY. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworlh, 

THE AMOURS OF PHILLIPPE. “ Phillippe’s Love Affairs.” By Feuillet. 
FANCHON, THE CRICKET ; or, LA PETITE FADETTE. By George Sand. 
BESSIE’S SIX LOVERS. A Charming Love Story, of the purest and best kind. 
THAT GIRL OF MINE. A Love Story. By the author of “ That Lover of Mine.” 
THAT LOVER OF MINE. By the author of 11 That Girl of Mine.” 

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A HEART TWICE WON; or, SECOND LOVE. A Love Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth 
Van Loon , author of “The Shadow of Hampton Mead.” Cloth. Price $1.50. 

THE SHADOW OF HAMPTON MEAD. A Charming Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth 
Van Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 

UNDER THE WILLOWS; or, THE THREE COUNTESSES. By Elizabeth Van Loon, 
Author of “A Heart Twice Won,” “ Shadow of Hampton Mead,” etc. Cloth, $1.50. 

THE MYSTERY OF ALLANWOLD. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon , author of “A 
Heart Twice Won,” “ The Shadow of Hampton Mead,” etc. Cloth. Price $1.50. 

MYRTLE LAWN. A New American Novel. By Bobert E. Ballard , of North 
Carolina. Cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 


THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. Illustrated. By Alexander Dumas. Price 
One Dollar in paper cover, or $1.75 bound in cloth. 

EDMOND DANTES. Sequel to the Count of Monte- Cristo. Price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or fine edition, bound in cloth, price $1.75. 

THE COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO. With her Portrait on the cover. Price 
One Dollar in paper cover, or bound in cloth, price $1.75. 

THE OLD STONE MANSION. This is one of the most thrilling, powerful, and 
absorbing romances of real life ever penned. Cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 

THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. By Miss Eliza A. Dupuy. Uniform with 
“A Heart Twice Won.” Bound in vellum, black and gold, price $1.50. 

A DOUBLE WEDDING; or, HOW SHE WAS WON. By author of “The House- 
hold of Bouverie,” and uniform with “A Heart Twice Won.” Morocco cloth, $1.50. 

THE LAST ATHENIAN. By Victor Rydberg. This is one of the most remarkable 
hooks ever published. One volume, 12mo., 600 pages, cloth, price $1.75. 

FRANK FORESTER’S SPORTING SCENES AND CHARACTERS. The Great 
Sporting Book. By Henry William Herbert ( Frank Forester ), author of “The 
Roman Traitor ; or, The Days of Cicero, Cato, and Cataline.” Containing a variety 
of incidents, on the road, in the field and the forest, with the precepts, practice, and 
accidents of woodcraft, and concerning all the Field Sports of America, with a full 
and complete sketch of English Fox-Hunting. Including “The Warwick Wood- 
lands,” “My Shooting Box,” “The Deer Stalkers,” and “ The Quorndon Hounds.” 
It also contains an introductory chapter, containing a full sketch of the author’s life, 
his portrait and autograph, with a life-like picture in his shooting costume, and seven- 
teen other illustrative engravings from original designs by Felix O. C. Darley. The 
whole is complete in two large duodecimo volumes, printed on fine paper, handsomely- 
bound in morocco cloth, bevelled boards, black and gold, price Four Dollars. 

FRANCATELLI’S MODERN COOK BOOK of French, English, German and Italian 
Cookery. This is a Practical Guide to the Culinary Art in all its branches, and is the 
best and most complete Cook Book in the world, as it has proved to be the best guide 
for the kitchen in all households, large or small, that has ever appeared on either side 
of the Atlantic. A new and enlarged edition of it is just ready. Complete in 600 
large octavo pages, with 62 illustrations, 1500 receipts, bills of fare, etc., strongly 
bound, price Five Dollars a copy. Every family should have a copy of it. 


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HENRY GREVILLE’S NEW BOOKS. 

THE PRINCESS OGHEROF. A Russian Love Story. By 
Henry Greville. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

XENIE’S INHERITANCE. A Russian Story. By Henry 
Greville . Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE TRIALS OF RAISSA. By Henry Greville , author of 
“Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

DOSIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli’s 
Expiation.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

SAVELI’S EXPIATION. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , 
author of “ Dosia.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

BONNE-MARIE. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry 
Greville. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

PHXLOMENE’S MARRIAGES. By Henry Gr'eville , author 
of “ Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

DOURNGF. A Russian Novel. By Henry Greville , author of 
“Dosia.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. By Henry Greville , 
author of “ Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

SONIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , author of “ Saveli’s 
Expiation.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry Greville , 
author of “ Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

A FRIEND; or, L’AMI. By Henry Greville , author of 
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MARKOF. A Russian Novel. By Henry Greville, author of 
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GABRIELLE; or, The House of Maureze. By Henry 
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LUCIE RODEY. A Society Novel. By Henry Greville , author 
of “Dosia.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 


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ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “ Self-Made ; or, Out of Depths.'* 

| SELF-RAISED; or, From the Depths. The Sequel to “Ishmael.” 

1 HE PHANTOM WEDDING ; or, the Fall of the House of Flint. 

THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 

VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. The Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.” 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 

THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 

FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER. 

HOW HE WON HER. The Sequel to “Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or, Winning Her Way. 

THE BRIDE S FATE. The Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. The Sequel to “ Cruel as the Grave.” 

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST ; or, The Crime and the Curse. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. The Sequel to “The Lost Heir cf Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 

THE MAIDEN WIDOW. The Sequel to “The Family Doom.” 

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening. 

THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES ; or, SHANNONDALE. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 

THE TWO SiSTERS ; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 

THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. THE CURSE Of CLIFTON 
THE WIDOW’S SON: or, LEFT ALONE. 

THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

ALL Vi/ ORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA, 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 

VIVIA ; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 

BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. THE DESERTED WIFE. RETRIBUTION 
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THE WIFE’S VICTORV 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. 

THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
THE FATAL SECRET. 

LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. 


PETEESOlfS’ DOLLAR SERIES 

OF GOOD AJfD NEW NOVELS, ARE THE BEST, LARGEST, AND 

CHEAPEST BOOKS IN THE WORLD. 

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T WO WAYS TO MATRIMONY ; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride ? 

THE STORY OF “ELIZABETH.” By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray 
FLIRTATIONS IN FASHIONABLE LIFE. By Catharine Sinclair. 

|5?HE MATCHMAKER. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. Full of freshness and truthS 
ROSE DOUGLAS, The Bonnie Scotch Lass. A companion to “Family Pride.” 

THE EARL’S SECRET. A Charming and Sentimental Love Story. By Miss Pardoe. 
FAMILY SECRETS. A companion to “ Family Pride,” and a very fascinating work. 

A LONELY LIFE. A Thrilling Novel in Real Life. 

THE MACDERMOTS OF BALLYCLORAN. An Exciting Novel by Anthony Trollope. 
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THE PRIDE OF LIFE. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott. 

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SELF-LOVE. A Book for Young Ladies, with their prospects in Single and Married Life contrasted 
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THE DEVOTED BRIDE; or, FAITH AND FIDELITY. A Love Story. 

THE HEIRESS IN THE FAMILY. By author of “ Marrying for Mor ey.” 

COLLEY CIBBER’S LIFE OF EDWIN FORREST, with Remiriscences. 

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. This is full of style, elegance of diction, and force of thought 
OUT OF THE DEPTHS. A Woman’s Story and a Woman’s Book, the Story of a Woman’s Life 
THE QUEEN’S FAVORITE ; or. The Price of a Crown. A Romance of Don Juan, 
THE CAVALIER. A Novel. By G. P. R. James, author of “ Lord Montagu’s Page.” 

THE RECTOR’S WIFE ; or, THE VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES. 
THE COQUETTE; or, LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 
WOMAN’S WRONG. A Book for Women. By Mrs. Eiloart. A Novel of great power. 
HAREM LIFE IN EGYPT AND CONSTANTINOPLE. By Emmeline Lott. 
THE OLD PATROON ; or, THE GREAT VAN BROEK PROPERTY. 
THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW. TREASON AT HOME. PANOLA 1 

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ALEXANDER DUMAS’ GREAT WORKS. 

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The Count of Monte-Cristo. With elegant illustrations, and portraits of Edmond Dantea 
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Edmoiul Dantes. A Sequel to the “Count of Monte-Cristo.” In one large octavo volume 
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Tile Countess of Mositc-Cristo. With a portrait of the “Countess of Monte-Cristo ” on 
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The Three Guardsmen; or. The Three Mousquetaires. In one large octar 
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Twenty Years After. A Sequel to the “Three Guardsmen.” In one large octavo volumfl 
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Bragelonne ; the Son of Athos. Being the continuation of “ Twenty Years After.” In 
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The Iron Mask. Being the continuation of the “Three Guardsmen,” “ Twenty Years After,” 
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Louise La Valliere; or, the Second Series of the “Iron Mask,” and end of “The Three 
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The Memoirs of a Physician ; or, The Secret History of the Court of Louis the Fifteenth. 
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Six Years Later; or, Taking of the Bastile. Being the “Third Series of the Memoirs of a 
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Countess of Charily; or, The Fall of the French Monarchy. Being the “Fourth Series of 
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Audree de Taverney. Being the “Fifth Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In om 
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The Chevalier; or, the “Sixth Series and final conclusion of the Memoirs of a Physician 
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Joseph Balssimo. Dumas’ greatest work, from which the play of “Joseph Balsamo” waf 
dramatized, by his son, Alexander Durnas, Jr. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or $1.50 in cloth. 

The Conscript; or. The Days of the First Napoleon. An Historical Novel. In 
one large duodecimo volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Camille; or. The Fate of a Coquette. (“ La Dame aux Camelias.”) This is the only 
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and the Opera of “ La Traviata ” was adapted to the Stage. Paper cover, price $1.50 ; or in cloth, $1.75. 

Love and Liberty; or, A Man of the People. (Rene Besson.) A Thrilling Story 
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The Adventures of a Marquis. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Forty-Five Guardsmen. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, fir $1.75. 

Diana of Meridor. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Hand. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or in cne volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Isabel of Bavaria, Queen of France. In one large octavo volume. Pric*; 75 cents. 

Annette; or. The Lady of the Pearls. A Companion to “Camille.” Frl'.e 75 cent4 

The Fallen Angel. A Story of Love and Life in Paris. One large volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Mohicans of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cent3. 

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The Man with Five Wives. In on© large octavo volume. Price 75 cents, 

Sketches in France. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Felina de Chambure; or. The Female Fiend. Price 75 cents. 

The Twin Lieutenants; or, The Soldier’s Bride. Price 75 cents. 

Madame de Chamblay. In one large octavo volumo. Price 50 cents. 

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George; or. The Planter of the Isle of France. Price 50 cent* 

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I.ord Saxondale ; or, The Court of Queen Victoria. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
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Joseph Wilmot; 6r, The Memoirs of a Man Servant. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
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Tile Necromancer. Being the Mysteries of the Court of Henry the Eighth. Complete is 
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Wallace: the Hero of Scotland.* Illustrated with 88 plates. Paper, $1 .00 ; cloth, $1.75 
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Robert Bruce; the Hero Kinj? of Scotland. Illustrated. Paper, $1.00; cloth. $1.75 
The Opera Dancer ; or, The Mysteries of London Life. Price 75 cents. 

Isabella Vincent; or, The Two Orphaus. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 
Vivian Bertram ; or, A Wife’s Honor. A Sequel to “Isabella Vincent.” Price 75 cents. 
The Countess of Eascelles. The Continuation to “Vivian Bertram.” Price 75 cents. 
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Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. Complete in one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 
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May Middleton ; or, The History of a Fortune. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cent. 
The Loves of the Ilarem. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

.Ellen Percy; or, The Memoirs of an Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 
'Tft.e Discarded Queen. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cea.s. 

Agnes Evelyn; or, Beauty and Pleasure. One large octavo vclume. Price 75 cents. 

The Massacre of Glencoe. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

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jBy Author ©£ 66 L’ Assom.rn.oir.” 

iN - -A. 3>T I 

SEQUEL TO “L’ASSOMMOIE.” 


/ 



AUTHOR OP ** L* ASSOMMOIR," “ CLORINDA ; OR, ZOLA’s COURT OF NAPOLEON III.," “ THE RDUGON* 
MACQUART FAMILY,’ “ HELENE; OR. UNE PAGF. D’AMOUR,” " THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION; 

OR, LA FAUTE DE l’aBBE MOURET,” “ THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS," “ THE 
MARKETS OF PARIS; OR, LE VENTRE DE PARIS." 

TRANSLATED BY JOHN STIRLING. 


Mead what the ‘ Boston Courier f says of ‘Nana.’ 

“ Nana,” by Emile Zola. — If the sale of a work is any measure of its success, and 
it is generally esteemed such, then “Nana” and “ IJ Assommoir” are the most suc- 
cessful novels ever written, for their circulation has been almost unbounded. Aside 
from the fact that “Nana ” is a continuation of “L’Assommoir and will therefore be 
read by all who have perused the latter work, the character of the story itself is suffi- 
ciently fascinating to attract for it universal attention. “Nana” is a careful study of 
the life and manners of a certain class of people, ordinarily designated as those of ele- 
gant leisure. The heroine is a variety actress, whose face and figure create a furore 
among the fashionable Parisians, who follow her on and off the boards as if she w'ere 
a veritable queen. Her life is a life of perpetual excitement and uninterrupted intrigue, 
portrayed with an intensity of graphic delineation w hich is almost terrible to realize. 
Zola’s purpose is, as he himself says, to paint this class of women as they exist in real 
life, and any one who reads the work will not hesitate to declare that he has attained 
a full measure of success in his attempt. Although the work deals with vice in all its 
hideous reality, “Nana” throws no glamor over self-indulgence, nor lends the least 
charm to natures essentially false and corrupt. The writer’s object is to make vice 
repulsive, believing that thereby it will lose the attractiveness which has been imparted 
to it by certain writers of a less realistic school. Though “Nana ” is a continuation 
of “ V Assommoir ” it in no way resembles the latter in its field of action, for the scene 
is laid among a totally different class of people. Only in the method of treatment 
does it resemble its predecessor, for w r e find the same powerful and life-like delinea- 
tions of character, the same finished execution, and the same marvellous command of 
language wffiich characterize all of Zola’s works. “Nana” is undoubtedly destined to 
rank as high in popularity as any of the author’s previous productions, and also to 
have an unparalleled sale. “Nana” has created a great sensation abroad, and has 
been hailed by the Press of London, Paris and St. Petersburg, as the literary event of 
the century, over three hundred thousand copies of “Nana” and “ L’ Assommoir” 
having been sold in Paris alone. “Nana” and ‘ IS Assommoir” are each complete in 
one volume, price 75 .cents each in paper cover, or One Dollar each hound in cloth, 
and will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, and on all Railroad 
Trains, or copies will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, on remitting price in a 
letter to the Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 

Zola's Novels are the greatest xoorks of this century. Address all orders to 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa, 


-^“Frank Forester’s Great Sporting Book.^a 



FRANK FORESTER’S 

SPORTING SCENES AND CHARACTERS. 


BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. 


(FRANK FORESTER.) 


Author of “The Roman Traitor; or, The Days of Cicero, Cato, and Cataline.” 

i It contains a variety of incidents, on the road, in the field and the forest, 
with the precepts, practice, and accidents of woodcraft, and concerning all 
the Field Sports of America, with full and complete sketches of English 
Fox-Hunting, including “The Warwick Woodlands,” “ My Shooting 
Box,” “The Deer Stalkers,” and “ The Quorndon Hounds.” To 
which is added an introductory chapter containing a sketch of 
the author’s life, with his portrait and autograph, a life-like 
picture in his shooting costume, and seventeen other illus- 
trative engravings from original designs by Darley and 
Frank Forester. The whole is complete in two large 
duodecimo volumes, printed on fine paper, and hand- 
somely bound in morocco cloth, with bevelled 
boards, black and gold, price Four Dollars. 

Henry William Herbert, the author of “Frank Forester’s Sporting Scenes 
and Characters,” was born in London, April 7, 1807. He received all the ad- 
vantages of a thorough classical education. His passion for field sports, inherited 
from his ancestors, was exhibited while yet at school. His father, an enthusiastic 
sportsman, taught “ the young idea how to shoot, to ride a horse, and speak the truth ” 
— three essential elements in the education of the British gentry. Soon after leaving 
college, young Herbert visited Paris, and after a tour of several months on the con- 
tinent, he determined to leave home, kindred, and station, for another clime. Arri- 
ving in the United States in December, 1831, with “ no other purpose than to see 
America in all its length and breadth,” to use his own language, he sojourned for a 
time in New York city, then visited Orange county, N. Y., where for the first time he 
beheld “ Tom Draw,” and in company with that keen sportsman hunted the quail and 
woodcock in the Warwick Woodlands. This fair region and the genial host have been 
since rendered famous in both hemispheres by Herbert’s pen. At “ The Cedars,” his 
country home, Herbert was the wonder and admiration of the people. In the field, 
with dog and gun, or along the trout streams, with rod in hand, he was held a model, 
the same as in his works pertaining to those pastimes. Frank Forester’s writings 
form an important feature of American literature— derived not only from an hered- 
itary zeal and taste for field sports, but an ability in literary walks, and opportunities 
for the practice of the sports he loved, both in America and in Europe, which com- 
bined to make him the model sporting author in the world. 

New Edition, Revised and Enlarged, 19 Illustrations. 2 vols., cloth, $4.00. 

The above Work is for sale by all Jirst-class Booksellers, or copies of it will 
)e sent to any one , to any place, at once, post-paid , on remitting price to the publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


WANTED.— Canyasssrs to sell the a! ioie Bool sent for terms. 


E^Vidoeq’s Memoirs. Ail Autobiography. 



THE FRENCH DETECTIVE. 


AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


With a Portrait of “VIDOCQ,” his Autograph, and with Illustrative 
Engravings, from Original Designs by Cruikshank, and an Introduc- 
tory Chapter, and Personal Recollections, by Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie. 


“Vidocq, the French Detective,” is one of the most wonderful exposes ever 
printed, and should be read by all that crave powerful description. As an Autobiog- 
raphy, it has many and singular characteristics, which stamp it at once as one of the 
most interesting and powerful narratives ever penned. Replete with astonishing inci- 
, dents and instructive moral, it affords for the lovers of romance all that the wildest 
taste could desire of hair breadth escapes, imminent danger, thrilling horrors, and 
powerful description. For the amateurs of fun, there are sketches as comic as humor 
can devise; and for the reflective reader, who, not content with the mere detail of 
events, searches into the motives, and philosophizes on the wit or weakness, power or 
puerility of the human mind, herein will be found ample scope for his most meditative 
musings. To any who may assert their disbelief of the personal deeds and perils of 
Vidocq, as detailed by him in these pages, we suggest this plain fact — none of them 
were ever contradicted ; and yet many of the persons whom he handled with severity, 
and spoke of in no measured terms, were still living when the work was first issued, 
and would have been too happy to refute the charges alleged, did not the truth forbid 
denial. His wonderful and multiplied escapes and adventures are all facts; as no man 
in his senses would give fictitious descriptions of what could be easily disproved, if 
false. The volume contains a Portrait of Vidocq, with his Autograph, and Illustrative 
Engravings, from Original Designs by Cruikshank, with an Introductory Chapter, and 
Personal Recollections of Vidocq, by Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie. It is published by 
T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, in a large square duodecimo volume, paper 
sover, price 75 cents, or in one volume, bound in morocco cloth, price One Dollar, and 
is in uniform style with Petersons’ editions of “Dosia,” “Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” 
etc., and will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, and on all Rail- 
road Trains, or copies of it will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, on remitting 
the price in a letter to the Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents, Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.00. 

jggg® “ Vidocq, the French Detective ” is issued in a square 12 mo. volume, in uniform 
style with “Dosia” “Saveli's Expiation” “Sonia” “The Trials of Rdissa,” “ Lucy 
Rodey ” « Xenie's Inheritance” “ Marrying Off a Daughter” “Markof” “Ronnie 
I Marie,” “Philomlne's Marriages,” “Dournof” “A Friend,” “Pretty Little Countess 
\Zina,” “The Princess Ogherof,” and “ Gabrielle ,” by Henry Greville, all of which books 
ue for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of any one, or all of the books, 
be salt to any one, post-paid, on remitting their price to the Publishers , 



T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

806 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


S 


.«JAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP 

AND MAJOR JONES’S OTHER BOOKS, JUST PUBLISHED BY 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA 


And for sale in Paper Cover, and in Morocco Cloth, Gilt. 


Major Jones’s Courtship. 

MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP. Detailed, with Humorous Scenes, Inci- 
dents, and Adventures. By Major Joseph Jones, author of “ Raney Cot- 
tem’s Courtship,” “Major Jones’s Travels,” “Major Jones’s Georgia 
Scenes,” etc. Revised and Enlarged. With Twenty-One Full Page Illus- 
trations on Tinted Plate Paper, by Darley and Cary. One volume, 12mo. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover ; or in morocco cloth, gilt, $1.00. 

Major Jones’s Travels. 

MAJOR JONES’S TRAVELS. Detailing his Adventures, Humorous 
Scenes, and Incidents, in each town he passed through, while on his tour 
from Georgia to Canada. By Major Joseph Jones, author of “Major 
Jones’s Courtship.” With Eight Full Page Illustrations on Tinted Paper, 
by Darley. One volume, 12mo., uniform with “Major Jones’s Courtship.” 
Price 75 cents in paper cover ; or in morocco cloth, gilt, $1 .00. 

MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP and MAJOR JONES’S TRAVELS. These two 
books are also issued in one volume, bound in morocco cloth, price $1.75. 

Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 

MAJOR JONES’S GEORGIA SCENES. Comprising his celebrated Sketches 
of Georgia Scenes, with their Incidents and Characters. By Major Joseph 
Jones, author of “Major Jones’s Courtship.” With Twelve Full Page 
Illustrations on Tinted Paper, by Darley. Uniform with “Major Jones’s 
Courtship.” Price 75 cents in paper cover ; or in morocco cloth, gilt, $1.00. 

Eancy Cottem’s Courtship. 

RANCY COTTEM’S COURTSHIP. Detailed, with Other Humorous 
Sketches and Adventures. By Major Joseph Jones, author of “Major 
Jones’s Courtship.” With Eight Full Page Illustrations on Tinted Plate 
Paper, by Cary. One volume, 12mo., uniform with “ Major Jones’s Court- 
ship.” Price 50 cents in paper cover ; or in morocco cloth, gilt, $1.00. 


Above Books by Major Jones, are for sale by all Booksellers and News 
Agents , or copies of any one or all of them , will be sent to any one, to any place , 
at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa, 

WANTED.— Canvassers to engage in selling tie atiove worts/ 



“ By this time the galls was holt of my coat-tail, hollerio as hard as they could.** 

Price in Paper Cover, 75 Cents; or in Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.00. 

Major Jones's Courtship is for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , or copies of 
\ither edition will be sent at once , post-paid , on remitting price in a letter to the publishers, 

T B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Major Jones’s Courtship. 

WITH 21 FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 

B1 T MAJOR JOSEPH JONES. 

(OF I'l S l.VU.l.i:. GEORGIA.) 


I 1 £ 

2 o 

? * 
^ s 

Ce 

* cx 

11 

a* s 


e 5 


i CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS. 

LIBRARY EDITION, IN MOROCCO CLOTH. 


12 Volumes, at $ 1.75 Each.; or $ 21.00 a Set. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS , No. 306 Chestnut Street , Phila- 
delphia, have just published an entire new, complete , and uniform edition of 
all the celebrated Novels written by the popular American Novelist , Mrs. Car- 1 
oline Lee Hentz, in twelve large duodecimo volumes. They are printed on the 
finest paper , and bound in the most beautiful style, in Green Morocco cloth , 
with a new, full gilt back, and sold at the low price of $1.75 each, or $21.00 
for a full and complete set. Every Family and every Library in this country, 
should have in it a complete set of this new and beautif ul edition of the works 
of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. The following is a complete list of 

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS, 

LINDA; or, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. 

With a Complete Biography of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
ROBERT GRAHAM. A Sequel to “Linda.” 

RENA ; or, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life. 

MARCUS WARLAND ; or, The Long Moss Spring. 

ERNEST LINWOOD; or, The Inner Life of the Author. 

EOLINE; or, MAGNOLIA VALE; or, The Heiress of Glenmore. 

THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE ; or, Mrs. Hentz’s Childhood. 
HELEN AND ARTHUR; or, Miss Thusa’s Spinning-Wheel. 
COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; or, The Joys of American Life. 
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE; and other Stories of the Heart. 

THE LOST DAUGHTER ; and other Stories of the Heart. 

THE BANISHED SON; and other Stories of the Heart. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or $21.00 for 
a complete set of the twelve volumes. Copies of either one of the above books, or ( 
a complete set of them , will be sent at once to any one, to any place , postage 
pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting their price in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 








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